


Instinct & Taste

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Charleston (Location), Chef!Jensen, Frottage, M/M, student!Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young chef trying to break into the sizzling hot world of Charleston cuisine, Jensen Ackles spent more time in the kitchen than he did sleeping, eating, or socializing; he was absolutely dedicated to his craft and to the mentor who’d given him a chance.  When all of that work paid off in a big way, Jensen was thrilled, but from the moment he accepted his dream job, other aspects of his life began to sour, quickly.  </p><p>Now, shouldered with the extra burdens of caring for his brother’s house and keeping his job safe from a brown-nosing new sous chef, Jensen tries everything, up to and including therapy, to keep his life from boiling over.  It’s not until he hires college senior Jared Padalecki that things start to turn around, and Jensen learns that if he can stand the heat, fate might cook up something even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct & Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 SPN/J2 Big Bang Challenge. Art by secretlytodream/graphicinmotion @ LJ.

**“Cookery is not chemistry. It is an art. It requires instinct  
and taste rather than exact measurements.”** _Marcel Boulestin_

**"Life sucks, so treat yourself to something sinfully delicious  
once in a while. Preferably something with a lot of butter."** _Jensen Ackles_

**EIGHT MONTHS AGO**

**THE MACINTOSH  
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA**

“If you tell me not to go, Jen, I won’t.”

Jensen’s mojito sorbet has melted into a pale green puddle—mint, lime, and sugar rendered inedible. He pushes through the mess with his spoon, unable to look his brother in the eye.

Josh can’t leave. He’s the keystone at the center of Jensen’s world, and has been for the last seven years. Without him, everything that Jensen has built with careful consideration would collapse. Jensen’s life is imperfect—it’s wall-to-wall chaos most of the time—but he never imagined having to rip out such a huge piece.

“Seriously, bro. You’ve gotta talk to me.”

Jensen considers being cruel; the words are on the tip of his tongue. Josh wouldn’t even be surprised if he were. No one understands Jensen better than his brother, so Josh must know the direction his thoughts are taking.

If he tells Josh to stay, Jensen is positive he would—big brothers are supposed to make sacrifices. They’d never talk about it again, but Jensen would always carry the burden of denying Josh this amazing opportunity to work overseas for his law firm.

Across the white tablecloth, he sees Josh’s hope beginning to crumble, and Jensen can’t avoid the fact that he’s being a selfish asshole, as usual.

“Is Gemma excited to go?”

“Wow, I mean, you have no idea,” Josh tells him. He eats the melted sorbet whereas Jensen won’t spare it another glance. “She’s always wanted to travel the world like her parents. And she’s got a few friends in Hong Kong already, so it’ll be easy for her.”

Even though Jensen knows he’s going to say yes, there’s a part of him that wants to see Josh squirm. He wants the decision to be _tough_. 

“And easy for you?”

“C’mon, man. You know this is killing me.” Josh looks rough tonight, Jensen can admit. He’d picked listlessly at the artisanal Paccheri pasta and local shrimp Jensen had recommended, skin thin and dark around his eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping. Jensen’s a little satisfied to see the signs; he knows he’ll be in the same shape if Josh really does abandon him.

“If I thought you’d even consider it,” Josh says, “I’d ask you to move with me. It’s only a couple of years, max, and the restaurants in Hong Kong are world-class. I know some guys—”

“No way,” Jensen cuts his brother off. “I finally have the chance to run my own kitchen. That’s always been my dream, Josh.”

“I thought your dream was to buy your own restaurant, not take orders from someone else.”

“But Pierre and I are on the same page about everything,” Jensen insists. “He’s leaving the menu entirely up to me, and in a few months, we’ll have one of the best restaurants in Charleston. I can’t throw that away when I’m this close.”

“And I’d never ask you to,” Josh says, sincerity in the calm timbre of his voice and the drooping line of his shoulders. Jensen wants to smack him for turning the conversation around.

“Right.”

“You’re being”—Josh pauses as a server’s assistant refills their barely touched waters—“a little ridiculous, Jen. I know you want me to stay, and there’s a huge part of me that thinks I _should_ stay to make your life easier.”

Jensen fires back, words harsh and low to keep them from reaching the next table. It wouldn’t do for anyone on the restaurant’s staff to tattle on him. “It’s not just that! You’re talking about leaving me with your house, not to mention your dogs, for the entire time you’re off living in Asia.”

“I actually thought you’d be okay with that part.”

“Okay with what?” Jensen blurts out, louder than he intends. “You thought I’d be okay with moving farther away from downtown and having to commute?”

“It’s only five minutes from the crosstown—”

“That I’d work my schedule around your dogs instead of my kitchen?”

“Gemma’s already put together a list of reliable dog-walkers—”

“Or being even farther from my friends?”

“Jensen…” Josh’s soft tone steals the wind from Jensen’s sails. The gentle repetition of his name is kinder than if he had said, _Jensen, you don’t have any friends._

During the ensuing stand-off, while Josh looks at Jensen with that deep, thoughtful gaze and Jensen tries to look anywhere except his brother’s face, their server clears their plates and efficiently whisks any wayward crumbs off the tablecloth. Jensen sends the bill back with one of his cards and isn’t surprised when it’s returned listing only the wine. There’s a handwritten note from Nathan, the head chef, on the back apologizing for not being able to leave the kitchen.

Eventually, Josh breaks the silence. “I really, really want to do this, Jen,” he says, making Jensen feel even lousier. “We made a really big change after Mom and Dad passed away, moving here and starting over. And then you and I settled into this really comfortable routine, which has worked out for the last seven years, but we both need another change. The timing couldn’t be better since Pierre just promoted you to head chef.”

“That was a coincidence,” Jensen mutters, hating the way the word feels in his mouth. _Just like it was a coincidence that Mom and Dad were on their way home from my graduation when they were killed._

“Don’t think of it that way.” Josh’s voice is delicate as if he knows where Jensen’s thoughts have suddenly veered off to and he’s trying not to follow. “We’ve both worked so hard, Jen, and this is the result. Don’t you remember what we told each other when we got here?”

Jensen sighs. The words might as well be tattooed across his chest. “Keep moving forward.”

Josh gives him a half-smile. “It’s not as if we can stop now.”

It’s a silent struggle, but Jensen buries every single one of his selfish urges. He’ll break down later when he’s not holding Josh’s hopes and aspirations on a platter. Right now, his heart won’t let him disappoint his big brother.

“You’d better suck it up, then, because we’re going to be hanging out a lot before you leave,” Jensen tells Josh, eyes stinging under the threat of tears. “No whining or saying, ‘I’m too tired’ when I get off late and want to go out. And you and Gemma are coming to Riverside for dinner at least twice a week until you go. Okay?

“Are you kidding?” Josh laughs, the bright sound attracting more than one stare. “She’ll be thrilled. You know the only thing she loves more than me is your cooking.”

Josh’s eyes are wet, soaking up the golden gleam of the bistro’s artistic lighting. Jensen’s resistance crumbles and soon the two of them are tearing up in one of Charleston’s premiere restaurants—Jensen is going to have to put up with so much crap when this gets back to Nate. But in this moment, they’re two brothers, all that’s left of the Ackles family, sharing sorrow and excitement at a corner table.

And it won’t be the last time Jensen cries over Josh’s decision.

*****

**NOW**

**RIVERSIDE GRILL  
EAST BAY STREET, CHARLESTON**

“Food is theater. Act One introduces the spectacle and provides a scope of things to come: a promise for the rest of the night to live up to. Tonight, that’s our chilled potato bisque—creamy, with a hint of truffle that will leave you wanting more of that rich storyline.

“Act Two holds the drama. It presents innovative tastes and unexpected combinations. The seafood becomes a noble dish reminiscent of forgotten simplicity and elegance, laid over a bed of locally produced greens. Our beef is the finest cut of organic sirloin, grilled medium-rare over hickory coals, holding court with hearts of palm and shallots, drizzled with a sherry sauce.”

“What about Act Three?” someone calls out. 

Jensen swears he can hear at least half of the servers licking their lips. He’s hooked them all. They need to _feel_ the food before they can turn around and sell the shit out of it tonight. 

“The final act of our culinary performance brings closure and ensures satisfaction. Dessert arrives, and no matter the selection—a fine brandy or our praline and pomegranate tarts—we’ll reveal the meal’s last secret. It sates the palate, tempts a person back for more. Act Three can’t be overlooked or ignored. It’s as essential to cuisine as an orgasm is to great sex—”

“All right!” Miranda Carlton-Jennings stands and claps for attention. The assembled servers blink collectively, and then focus shifts away from Jensen. “I think that’s plenty for this meeting. Make sure you go over the specials again, and check your tables one more time. Everything needs to be spotless! We’ve got a full house, so no mistakes, ladies and gentlemen.”

Jensen watches the staff scurry and scatter like billiard balls after Miranda’s pointed strike. They collide with one another, looking for the fastest way to the alley so they can light up with the first of tonight’s many cigarettes.

Waiters. They all smoke like fucking chimneys.

“That was quite a speech, Jensen,” Miranda says, manicured claws curled around her wine glass. It wouldn’t do for Jensen to tell her that celebratory drinking should be done _after_ a successful night, not before the first customer is even seated. “Not really what I had in mind for opening night.”

“You mean re-opening,” Jensen points out. “It’s the same restaurant.” Even as he says it, Jensen knows it’s a lie. Miranda had kept the restaurant and its name—along with the house on Broad Street, the Mediterranean villa, and a few million dollars in her divorce from Pierre—and a handful of Jensen’s staff, but not much else. Riverside Grill is no longer the restaurant Pierre Jennings had designed and created.

“Oh Jensen!” Miranda trills as if he’s being silly. “It’s got a new vibe, a whole different attitude.” She snaps her fingers at the outrageous new light fixtures, the modern and uncomfortable looking chairs tucked into the tables. Not to mention a new crop of servers, more cut-throat and entitled than Pierre would have been able to tolerate. But servers in Charleston are a dime-a-dozen, and Riverside had been flooded with applicants as soon as Miranda put out the word.

“We’re fresh. Can’t you see it?”

He wants to tell this new divorcee that seeing it doesn’t matter. _Tasting_ it does. Atmosphere is nothing next to the food, and Miranda ought to know that. Tourists may flock to their ‘new vibe,’ but the locals who make or break restaurants on a weekly basis aren’t so easily impressed.

The fact that Jensen never answers doesn’t appear to bother Miranda; she breezes along regardless. He’s itching to get back to his kitchen, halfway through the frosted glass door before Miranda calls his attention back.

“Oh, one more thing, honey! Now that we’re open again, you need a new sous chef.”

Jensen sighs, recalling the stack of resumes he’d taken a nap on in the middle of prep. “Fine, I’ll start making calls tomorrow morning.”

Miranda’s expression is one of unmistakable satisfaction. “No need. I’ve already hired someone.”

“You _what_?” At the outburst, three busboys walking in Jensen’s direction suddenly make an about-face and retreat back into the kitchen. “Miranda—”

“And I thought he could start tonight,” she says, blunting further protest. “I have a feeling you two will get along fabulously.”

*****

**SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES  
BATTERY STREET, CHARLESTON**

“Can you taste how the extra spice accentuates the yellowfin tuna?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s the wasabi mashed potatoes. The pepper relish and asparagus aren’t enough to carry the dish, and I’ve really been playing with seasoned potatoes this week.”

“Very clever of you. However—”

“Because anyone can whip up some mashed potatoes and slap them on a plate alongside meat and green beans, but I want to showcase every possible flavor when I cook.”

“Which is why you’re one of the best sculptors of fine cuisine in the city, but Jensen—”

“And you noticed the presentation, right? It’s not simple aesthetics. I wanted to make sure that the flavors were represented in each bite. First the parsley, then the cool relish laid over the tuna—”

“Jensen!” Dr. Roché‘s voice, which had steadily grown more frustrated as Jensen paced, rises and cuts him off. “I think we ought to discuss how Miranda’s machinations are affecting you. Please, have a seat.”

“But you haven’t finished your tuna.”

“As much as I appreciate the reprieve from my girlfriend’s cooking, we’re actually here to talk about you, not your cuisine.”

The doctor indicates the empty armchair beside his desk. Jensen sits, tapping at his forearm and looking at the remains of the yellowfin tuna. Room temperature won’t do the dish any favors.

Sebastian Roché is a handsome Frenchman with icy eyes, designer hair, and a jawline that could slice cheese. He’s also straight—or perhaps flexible given the way he has complimented Jensen’s ass—but Jensen enjoys checking him out during their sessions. 

_Looking_ is the only action he’s getting these days, anyway. The last time he’d gotten off with someone else was during his brief fling with Jeremy Renner, a chiseled blond working at Riverside. Renner was a career waiter who banked serious tips on a nightly basis. They’d hooked up inside and out of Riverside Grill, the most memorable occasion being when Renner sucked him off in the walk-in refrigerator—who knew cold was such a kink?—but he hadn’t survived Miranda’s transition.

As far as Jensen remembers, Renner had moved up to D.C. to get back together with his ex-boyfriend shortly after Miranda let him go.

“Jensen.” Sebastian’s voice pops the bubble of his thoughts. “You look a bit lost. What are you thinking about?”

He has a feeling Sebastian wouldn’t mind if he started detailing his sub-zero blowjob, but he answers with, “Miranda, I guess.”

“Ah, yes. You were telling me about last night’s opening.”

“Re-opening,” Jensen corrects, and the doctor’s eyes light up as he latches onto the surly tone.

“How did that go?”

Jensen sighs. “It was fine. I wanted Beaufort oysters to go with my Bourbon Maple Vinaigrette, but they delivered a batch from further north instead. The flavor was a little off, but I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“Your palate is remarkably refined.” Jensen can’t shake the notion that Sebastian is humoring him. Are therapists allowed to mock their clients? “I meant, how did you feel about Miranda going behind your back?”

“She had no right,” Jensen says, while thinking it should be obvious. “I staff the kitchen, and there are certain things that I have to consider before bringing in someone new.” Like making sure the ego doesn’t outshine the resume. “Pierre never would have hired someone without talking to me first.”

Sebastian makes a note in his book. “Is this new chef a good fit?”

“Of course not!” Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. “He comes from an _Italian_ restaurant. I mean, come on. I need someone with experience in _fine_ dining, not drowning tasteless pasta in barely edible marinara sauce and baking cheesy bread.”

Roché makes another note, and Jensen wishes he could crane his neck enough to read it.

Therapy had been Josh’s idea. Thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world, and he was still playing ‘big brother’. Sebastian was a therapist often called upon by Josh’s firm, and by pulling a few strings he’d secured Jensen a standing appointment. 

That had been three months ago, and Jensen’s not solid on what he’s supposed to be getting out of his weekly sessions. He understands why Josh wanted him to go in the first place: Pierre and Miranda’s divorce had thrown Riverside Grill into complete chaos, and Jensen had been torn between his mentor and the kitchen he dreamed of making his own. Pierre made the decision for him; he’d disappeared with an Argentinian mistress as soon as the ink dried on the divorce settlement, leaving Jensen to deal with Miranda’s aspirations for the restaurant.

After that, Jensen was strung along throughout Miranda’s redesign project. He endured weeks of the restaurant being closed with no one to serve, and he’d abused Josh’s kitchen in the meantime, creating dishes that Miranda would never allow. That was the kind of therapy Jensen got by with before Josh got involved.

Sebastian gives wonderful feedback on the dishes Jensen brings for him to sample, but Jensen always leaves the office with a jumbled head. He’s almost positive that’s not how therapy’s supposed to work.

“Maybe this chef—remind me again what his name is?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Paul, but he insists on going by his last name, Dawson. It’s unbelievable.”

Tapping his pen on the desk, Sebastian says, “Perhaps he needs time to adjust to your kitchen. Have you considered giving him a grace period?”

Moments like this, Jensen considers dumping therapy altogether. Word wouldn’t get back to Josh for at least a week—enough time to concoct a decent excuse.

“You don’t understand how things work in the restaurant business,” he tells Sebastian. “There is no grace period. You’re tossed into the deep end and you can either swim or choke on the water and drown.”

“A hard business to break into,” Sebastian says. “And yet you moved here and became successful rather quickly, didn’t you?”

Jensen nods, recalling those first few months when he and Josh were sharing a one-bedroom apartment on the upper floor of a narrow row house. He’d researched every restaurant, knocked down doors just to be given a chance. When he finally got a job, Jensen spent more time in the kitchen than he did eating, sleeping, or socializing, and he’d moved up through the ranks from prep cook to line cook to chef’s assistant. 

And then came the night when he’d filled in for a sous chef on bereavement leave and, as if by fate, created and served a new dish to Pierre Jennings. To say that ‘sparks flew’ would be hyperbole, but it was close. Jensen and Pierre had clicked on a professional level—that night, they compared visions over a bottle of wine while they sat at the end of a dimly lit bar. At that moment, Jensen had seen his future.

A future that fled the country along with Pierre.

“How did you do it?” Sebastian asks, and for once Jensen is able to give him the straight truth.

“I made damn sure I could swim.”

*****

 **HOME  
JAMES ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA**

At one o’clock in the morning, Jensen’s struggling to keep his eyes open while driving over the James Island connector; he nearly misses the exit for Harbor View Road. After living in Josh’s house for eight months, this drive ought to be routine.

The road rises above the marshland, jumping from pocket to pocket of buildable land until it crosses onto James Island. Jensen doesn’t pass another car the entire way, glad he has the Prius so he won’t disturb the nine-to-fivers already asleep as he pulls into the small neighborhood.

Josh had bought the house as a fixer-upper four years ago, only a year after Coulson & Calhoun had promoted him. Located in one of the older neighborhoods on James Island, each lot is surrounded by live oaks and the air is tinged with the scent of the Ashley River close by. Josh had loved the old island feel of it, wanting to escape the overly manicured grandeur of the newer neighborhoods.

Though he’d been too busy to help with most of the repairs, Jensen had lent his expertise to the kitchen remodel; he wouldn’t accept his brother cooking with anything less than the best, and Josh indulged him. Now that kitchen is one of the only reasons Jensen enjoys his long term house-sitting engagement. The kitchen in his downtown condo—which he’s leasing to one of the chefs at Grill 225 while Josh is out of the country—is well appointed, but small, and Jensen gets a kick out of how many things he can cook at once in a larger space.

Jensen’s already conjured up the feeling of how amazing it’s going to be to sink into bed after the day he’s had—first therapy and then walking into his kitchen to see Dawson presenting a new appetizer for Miranda’s approval—but the sight of a green SUV in the driveway brings an unexpected second wind. The front porch light is on, casting a welcoming glow over the front door. Staring up at the sky-blue paint on the porch ceiling, Jensen takes a deep breath before heading inside.

Paisley is on him first, charging into the foyer and leaping around his knees. The Boykin Spaniel wriggles excitedly until Jensen bends and scratches behind her soft, brown ears. Her big brother Scout, the laid-back golden retriever, waits his turn down the hall, sitting patiently beside the tall, handsome young man who’s watching Jensen and Paisley with a bright smile.

“Hey, Jared. I didn’t know you’d be here this late.”

“I—uh, kinda fell asleep on the couch watching the game,” Jared explains, and Jensen notices the way his brown hair is fluffed and lopsided from the sofa pillows. “I didn’t mean to stick around so long.”

Jensen waves it off. “I told you, you’re welcome to crash here whenever you need to. I know the dogs appreciate it,” he says, not adding the fact that coming home to another human presence—someone who doesn’t demand anything of him—is an unspeakable relief. He hangs his coat on the hall tree and drops his bag, rolling his shoulders to work out the weight of his day. “Guess I expected you to be out since it was a Friday night.”

“Oh man,” Jared shakes his head, laughing. At the hearty sound, Paisley abandons Jensen and dashes over to loop around Jared’s ankles. Seeing his chance, Scout trots over to take her place and lifts his muzzle for Jensen to scratch. “My roommates decided they wanted to have a few people over and, knowing them, it turned into a massive house party. I thought a night over here would be so much better than going deaf from house music and waiting for the cops to show up.”

The thought of strangers invading his personal space sends a shudder down Jensen’s spine. “Aren’t you worried about your stuff with all those people?”

Jensen follows Jared towards the back of the house where the kitchen and living room stand at opposite ends of the high-ceilinged, open space. Jared points to a pile of bags at the end of the sofa and says, “I brought my laptop, iPod, and phone with me. I locked the rest in my room, and since Matt can only pick locks when he’s sober, I’m hoping it’ll all still be there when I go back.”

Grabbing the pitcher out of the fridge, Jensen downs an entire glass of cool water. Friday nights are always the longest, and Jensen rarely skips out early or leaves his staff to clean up without him on busy nights.

“Anyway,” Jared’s saying, leaning on the counter, “you haven’t told me how the re-opening went the other night. From what you were telling me about the menu, I would have died to be there.”

“Hey, anytime you want, just tell me and I’ll get you a table,” Jensen says with complete seriousness. Since the day he discovered his penchant for blending flavors and ingredients, there has been nothing he enjoys more than cooking for family and friends. “My treat, obviously.”

Jared’s blush hits Jensen deep in his chest. “Wow, that’s—yeah, I’ll definitely take you up on that, Jensen. Thanks. But seriously, everything went okay with the re-opening?”

Jensen kind of adores the fact that Jared’s the only person who has listened to Jensen closely enough to say ‘re-opening.’ If he was in the habit of telling his therapist anything personal, he wonders what Sebastian would make of it.

“Miranda’s new staff was all over the place, but I ironed them out pretty quickly.”

“Did you give them your ‘food is theater’ speech?”

Jensen smirks, watching Jared lean forward on his elbows. “Obviously.”

“Did anyone spontaneously combust at the end?”

“Three waiters gave me their numbers, so I think it went over well.”

“God,” Jared moans, dropping his head. “That speech makes me want to get naked, cover myself in tiramisu, and have gorgeous men lick it off.”

Jensen coughs and immediately saves that mental image in his jerk-off file. It wouldn’t be Jared’s first starring role in Jensen’s fantasies; he’s headlined one or two per week since he accepted the job as Jensen’s dog-walker almost two months ago.

Jensen had gone through five previous dog-sitters before he found Jared. Rather, before Jared found him in the park with two leashes wrapped around his calves, struggling to stay on his feet as Paisley and Scout tried to run off in different directions. He’d been functioning on less than four hours of sleep, kept late by Miranda during one of her ‘frantic’ periods as they went over the re-opening in excruciating detail. And Jared had been out with friends when he saw Jensen’s predicament and decided to help.

In two months, Jensen’s learned that Jared is more than dependable; he’s responsible and enthusiastic, spending more time with Scout and Paisley than Jensen could ever manage. Jared had initially balked at the amount Jensen was willing to pay him—“They’re great dogs, Jensen, but they’re not royalty,” he’d said—but when Jensen wouldn’t renegotiate, Jared had decided to throw in a few extra jobs to make himself worth Jensen’s money. He picked up when Jensen let sleep get in the way of cleaning (which was most of the time, actually); he mowed the lawn before the neighborhood association could come after Jensen, again, for his higher-than-regulation grass; he killed spiders and swept palmetto bugs off the front porch when Jensen refused to go near them.

Seriously, just because Jensen’s a dude, it didn’t mean he likes dealing with all those Southern crawly critters.

Jared is a godsend, and he ranks right up there with stainless steel, Quickbooks, and the Keurig—and far above therapy—as something that makes Jensen’s life easier. Not to mention, he’s easy on the eyes. Rosemary-tinted irises below an expressive forehead; narrow nose between the parentheses of Jared’s deep dimples; tall and capable, with sculpted forearms and a tapered waist. 

“What about Miranda?” Jared asks. “Did she pull anything crazy last night?”

Jensen wonders what it means when he doesn’t deflect. It could be the way Jared asks it—casual, lacking the intent to dig deeper into Jensen’s psyche—but Jensen opens up in a way he can’t with Sebastian. The saga of Miranda’s scheming comes out while Jared does nothing more than provide a friendly ear.

By the time Jensen gets around to therapy and the way Sebastian was making excuses for Dawson’s inability to mesh with Jensen’s style, it’s past two a.m. and he and Jared are sitting at the counter sharing a cold plate of leftover paella, forks dueling for the meat hidden in the saffron rice.

Eventually Jensen sets his fork down but Jared keeps eating, shoveling the last bits of rice onto his fork with his finger. Jensen laughs and Jared looks up, red-faced.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to plow through the whole thing. Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“What happened to dinner?”

“I grabbed a sandwich on the way over here, but that was”—Jared twists his wrist to look at his watch—“wow, a long time ago.”

“You know I keep plenty of food in the fridge,” Jensen says. “You’re welcome to any of it while you’re here. Unless it’s marked ‘Don’t Touch,’ eat whatever you want.”

Jared smiles. “Don’t touch?

“Usually an experiment,” Jensen explains, matching his grin. “Never know what you’ll get with those. Otherwise feel free.”

“I know, I’m just afraid I’m over-stepping,” Jared says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just your dog-sitter.”

He catches Jensen in the middle of a yawn. “Are you kidding? I’m one hundred percent positive the dogs like you more than they like me, and that goes for the neighbors, too. I could not be any more grateful to have you here.”

Jared takes the praise silently, but Jensen can almost feel the heat his cheeks are giving off.

Four hands turn clean-up into a two minute ordeal, Jared moving as easily around Josh’s kitchen as Jensen does. When they’re finished, Jared gathers his stuff and repacks his bags, petting Paisley when she trots over to investigate the proceedings.

“Do you want me to let them out one last time?”

“I got it,” Jensen says. No sense letting Jared think he’s completely useless. He watches Jared remove evidence of his presence: his zip-up hoodie from over the kitchen stool, cell phone and charger from the coffee table, and a pile of loose-leaf notebook paper from the hardwood floor. Jensen almost wishes he’d miss something.

“Hey, it’s supposed to be nice on Sunday,” Jared says when he’s gotten everything. It strikes Jensen as an odd comment—he’s never cared much about the weather—until Jared adds, “I could swing by and we could take the dogs to the beach.”

“The beach?”

“Yeah, you know. We’ve got a few of them around here.” Jensen can’t shake off his blank stare and Jared smacks his lips together, sighing. “It’s weird how you don’t know anything about the area,” he says without edge. “You’ve lived here twice as long as I have.”

“You’re saying we should take the dogs…together.”

“You’re razor-sharp at two in the morning,” Jared says, shy humor bringing out his dimples. “But yeah, I love going to the beach and it’d give the dogs a chance to run. Plus, I know your schedule, and you seriously need to get out of the house once in a while.”

It sounds so much like something Josh would say; Jensen embraces that familiarity. “Maybe some of your charm will rub off on me.”

Jared’s eyebrow peaks above the messy fringe of his hair. “My charm, huh?”

And Jensen lets the implication hang there for just a moment before his smirk widens into a smile. “With the dogs, Jared. I want them to like me, too.”

“I’ll give you plenty of pointers. So, you wanna go?”

All flirting aside, Jensen’s weighing the probability of a beach-trip up against his only day off. His Sundays are sacred. Still, it’s Jared.

“Can I call you on Sunday morning?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” Jared says quickly. “It’s no big deal, really, and it’s your only day off. I wouldn’t want to go traipsing around either.”

Except Jared had been the one to suggest it and, technically, Sunday is Jared’s only day off from both school and his responsibilities at the house.

“Nah, I want to go, but without knowing what tonight’s gonna be like at the restaurant, and what I’ll have to do for Monday—”

“Jensen,” Jared cuts him off mid-ramble. “It’s fine. If it doesn’t work out, maybe we can plan another day.”

“Definitely. You, me, the beach”—Jensen chuckles; he needs to sleep soon before he crosses into delirium—“and two dogs who are gonna be covered in saltwater and sand by the time we’re done.”

“You know it’ll be a great time,” Jared says, unsuccessfully trying to hide his yawn. “Anyway, I should get going.”

Jensen’s ready with the offer: “If you want to crash here—”

“Thanks, but the party has to be winding down by now,” Jared says, slinging bags over his shoulders like a high-tech nomad. “And if Matt somehow managed to pick my lock, I don’t want to get home and find someone passed out in my bed.”

“Or worse, more than one someone,” Jensen teases, walking Jared to the front door.

Jared’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh, gross.”

*****

 **TWO WEEKS LATER**

**SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES**

The Lowcountry is bracing for a storm.

The windows in Sebastian’s office face the west where heavy, thunder-gray clouds are gathering for the evening onslaught. Rain in the forecast is never good for business; no one wants to drive downtown and take the chance that the roads will be flooded when they leave. Such are the perils of living in a city built on a spit of land _below_ sea level.

Poor weather will drive down the walk-in crowd: the impromptu diners and tourists without reservations. Jensen’s not as worried about profits as he is the amount of prepped food that could go to waste if—

“Jensen?” Sebastian sighs. “You’ve drifted.”

“Sorry, just thinking.”

“I realize that,” his therapist says, “but it would help me if you could say those thoughts out loud once in a while.”

Jensen’s fourth month of therapy hasn’t brought any startling revelations—or revelations of any kind, actually—but he hasn’t stopped coming. There’s a covered plate on Sebastian’s desk, holding Riverside’s famous gourmet take on Southern chicken and waffles, but Sebastian wouldn’t be distracted. He’d thanked Jensen for the food and pointed the chef to his usual seat.

“Were you thinking about the restaurant?”

“There’s not much else for me to think about.” It’s a lie. Sebastian doesn’t call him on it. 

“You feel that your life revolves around the restaurant?”

Jensen scrambles for a polite way to say _duh_. “It means everything to me. I spend my life in that kitchen—keeping it running smoothly, creating the best food possible. If Pierre was still involved, we’d have the best restaurant in the city.”

“So you’re not in favor of Miranda’s changes?”

At work, Jensen tries so hard to keep his opinions on Miranda from impacting his cuisine, but his shell is wearing thin. The restaurant continues to be popular, but Miranda’s ‘reinvention’ hadn’t brought the boom in business she’d expected. And Jensen’s not surprised. No restaurant worth its salt—and every other seasoning—needs to re-image itself as quickly as Riverside had under Miranda’s control.

Careful with his phrasing, Jensen admits, “She needs to understand I’m in charge of the kitchen, and that she and I are not a team.”

“You don’t trust her ability to run a kitchen.”

“Because she’s never worked in a kitchen in her life!”

Sebastian’s pen moves quickly across paper in the wake of his outburst. Jensen stews in silence, watching the ballpoint dart and wiggle, translating his reactions into therapist shorthand.

With a Lowcountry storm comes humidity and Jensen feels the weight of the air on his shoulders. He sighs, asking, “Could we talk about something else?”

Sebastian’s smirk is punishment for Jensen’s earlier remark. “Something else on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” Jensen grumbles. “Nothing specific.”

“Can I try something with you?” Sebastian sets his notebook aside and leans forward. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.” He waits for Jensen to resettle himself in the chair. “Relax for just a moment and try not to think about anything. Let it all go until your mind is blank.”

Jensen manages to clear his head of everything except the idea that this would be a great time for a pre-shift siesta.

“Take another deep breath—yes, like that. Now, open your mind and tell me the first thing you think about.”

He waits for a thought to hit, letting half-formed ideas and inklings pass by. The one that sticks isn’t what Jensen expects.

He opens his eyes. “Jared.”

“Jared.” Sebastian hums. “He’s your dog-walker?”

“Dog-walker, house-sitter, landscaper,” Jensen ticks them off one by one. “He’s the reason I haven’t lost my mind.” Sebastian looks up, lips lemon-tight. “No offense,” he quickly amends. “It’s just that Josh left me with a lot of responsibilities, and with Jared around I can focus on the restaurant.”

“How long has he been working for you?”

Despite the exchange of money, Jensen hates to think of Jared’s help in those terms; it’s not that simple. “About three months.”

“Do you spend a lot of time together?”

“Our schedules are different, but sometimes he’ll stick around until I get home, or he shows up in the morning to take the dogs for an early run before his classes.”

“So you and Jared are friends.”

“I guess,” Jensen says, trying to keep his voice neutral. No sense giving Sebastian too much insight. “It’s good to have someone around.”

“The way your brother was.”

“I’m not using Jared to replace Josh.” Jensen folds his arms across his chest, body language impossible for Sebastian to misinterpret. “He’s a good guy, and he’s easy to talk to. We keep it simple.”

“Simple,” Sebastian repeats. Jensen wonders if he used the wrong word. “So you don’t see your relationship with Jared progressing?”

“Into what?” he asks, trying not to be frustrated when Sebastian keeps his mouth shut. God damn therapists—always pressing for you to explain or ‘dig deeper’ but never giving one inch in return. 

Jensen changes directions. “I’m worried about him, actually,” he says, watching Sebastian write. “He’s been stressed lately. I think he’s having a rough time with his roommates and his classes.”

“And it’s affecting his work?”

“No way,” Jensen insists. “He does more than he needs to, trust me. But if it comes down to choosing between his friends, his classes, and me, then I know I’m going to lose him. To another job, I mean.”

Setting his pen on his lap, Sebastian looks over, dissecting Jensen’s words with a weighted silence. Jensen thinks back over what he said, trying to decide what sent up the red flag. 

“You’d be upset if Jared quit?” Sebastian finally asks.

“Obviously.”

“Because he’d leave you with more responsibilities than you can handle.”

“That’s—no, wait.” Jensen shakes his head. “It would suck if he quit, but I’d understand. I’m just not ready for that.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll find something within the bounds of your relationship that will allow you to help Jared with his situation,” Sebastian says.

“Such as?”

“You’d be amazed by how many people find _talking_ to be therapeutic. Not you, of course,” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Everything is more difficult with you.”

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

Jensen has to push his chair backwards to avoid the desserts currently being thrown across his desk. Mark Sheppard, pastry wizard, is shaking like a pot left boiling for too long as he rants in front of Jensen and three of Riverside’s other chefs, Dominic, Saban, and Libby, who’d piled into Jensen’s office for an impromptu bitch-fest.

“If that tosser touches my tarts one more time, I’ll cut off his nads and toast them with the rest of my nuts.” Mark flings another tart at Libby’s feet. She curses and kicks the cherry mess off of her shoes. “He asked if he could ‘fiddle’ with my recipes,” Mark gripes, “to see if there was any room for improvements.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t filet him on the spot,” Dom says. By his tone, he’s considered it. “You don’t mess with another chef’s recipe, for fuck’s sake.”

Jensen could add an entire menu of the things Dawson’s done to piss him off lately, but he lets his staff get their punches in.

“Why the bloody hell is he allowed anywhere near our kitchen?”

“Miranda wants her own man back here,” Dom says, adding a filthy twist to his voice. He’s leaning against the grimy little window that is Jensen’s only porthole to the outside world when he’s working in the back of the house. The view’s obscured by the same dark clouds he’d seen earlier during therapy. “God knows the rest of us won’t go anywhere near her.”

DeSean Saban, Riverside’s burly meat guy with shoulders as large as honeydew melons, groans. “My balls would shrivel up if I got within five feet of her.”

“Like your balls aren’t all wrinkled and old already,” Libby deadpans from where she’s slouched against Jensen’s filing cabinet. She’s a fierce little thing who might weigh a hundred pounds dripping wet, but she’s been toughing it out around dicks like Saban and Dom for years. Plus, she’s got an uncanny talent for cooking seafood.

Saban’s fingers drop to his belt. “Sounds like you wanna see ‘em, Lib. I don’t mind.”

“Hey,” Jensen finally jumps in. “Everyone keeps their pants on in my office, okay?”

Dom snorts. “That wasn’t the policy when I walked in here and saw you with Renner—”

“Everyone keeps their pants on in my office today!” Jensen amends. “And seriously, I’ve tried working with Miranda on this Dawson thing, but she’s not moving.”

It’s true—Jensen has come at the issue from every conceivable angle. He claims Dawson isn’t a match for the environment; his resume lacks the necessary experience; his dishes aren’t up to par with the rest of Riverside’s menu. No matter what Jensen says, Miranda waves it off with prickling nonchalance. Worse, she takes Jensen’s requests as a challenge, proposing little ‘competitions’ between Jensen and Dawson like they were pets circling for a treat. So far, Jensen refuses to take part.

“Do we have a plane?” Saban asks.

Jensen smirks. “You’re telling me that y’all have no idea how to run someone out of a kitchen? Come on.” He points at Saban and says, “Back at Sienna, I remember you sneaking up behind me and covering my nose and mouth with dried pepper.” Then to Libby: “I know you’ve got some nasty fish parts stashed somewhere that you can get creative with. And Dom, don’t even tell me you’ve forgotten about what we did to Vance when he started back at Red Coral.” 

It’s pointless to remind them what Mark’s capable of. The Englishman has reduced each of them to tears at some point. Though the idea that his pastry chef is this rattled over Dawson’s continued employment tells Jensen just how bad the situation’s gotten.

Dawson—and again, Jensen laments the stupidity of the guy’s name—has got to go.

Already scheming, Jensen’s staff files out of his office with deviousness in their hearts. Only Dom hangs back, hitting Jensen with a sharp gaze.

“You doing alright, Jen?”

“Yeah, man. I’m fine.”

“Sorry about dragging ‘em all in here, but I made sure Sheppard wasn’t armed.”

Jensen laughs. “He could have been deadly with those tarts.”

Jensen had met Dominic years ago when they were both working as apprentice chefs in a kitchen South of Broad. Instead of trying to bury each other like most up-and-coming talents, they’d cooked up an easy camaraderie in the kitchen. Their friendship didn’t translate as well outside the kitchen—Jensen and Dom were too different to hang out like regular guys—but that didn’t mean they couldn’t party together. They’d drink from shut-down to sun-up, and come back to do it all over again the next shift.

Those raunchy times are behind them. Dom had done the last thing anyone expected and settled down with a bartender they’d met before they joined up again at Riverside. Jensen likes the way Dom’s mellowed over the last year. He still has Jensen’s back, and he’d never let a shit like Dawson get in his way, but he’s built a life outside the industry.

Jensen wonders if his jealousy is something he should mention to Sebastian.

“You know,” Jensen says, “we wouldn’t have this Dawson issue if you’d taken the job when I offered it.”

Dom grins, wide teeth yellowed from years of smoking. “Yeah, I could’ve, but Stacy likes seeing me more than once a week.”

“I don’t know why she wants to see your ugly mug. I thought I was doing her a favor.”

“Never said it was my face she likes looking at.” Dom thrusts his hips towards the desk. “You know what I mean?”

Jensen groans. “I wish I didn’t. Now get outta here—make sure Mark’s not planning on doing anything that might involve felony charges. I’ve got work to do.”

Dom tips his head back through the door before he leaves. “Where do you stand on misdemeanors?”

Weighing Dawson’s infuriating existence against a little hassle from the Charleston Police, Jensen figures it’s a no brainer.

“Go get him, Dom.”

*****

Jensen is right about the weather. The rain hasn’t let up in hours and the kitchen’s not as busy as it should be for a Thursday night. But he’s not letting his crew slack off, calling out prep lists in between the orders popping up on the printer.

Speaking of which…

“One filet, medium rare, and one salmon,” he shouts to his line. Saban and Libby are in motion as soon as Jensen stops talking. The last item on the ticket is their made-from-scratch pasta, so that’s Jensen’s to handle.

Jensen can oversee the entire kitchen from his sauté station. Black rubber mats on the floor, eight-burner steel cooktop at his fingertips where he sets three pans and starts gathering what he needs for the Strozzapreti along with the ingredients for the salmon’s _blanc_ sauce. As head chef, he finishes every plate—sauces and aesthetics—before it leaves his kitchen. Everything gets his signature touch.

On nights when the kitchen is slammed, Jensen functions more as a referee than a chef. The stress is more likely to give someone a coronary than the ten sticks of butter Mark goes through every night. Food (and sometimes a knife) goes flying, pulses are pounding, and Jensen passes off plate after plate of perfect cuisine to a line of servers who are more likely to mess up a dish in the time it takes to go from kitchen to table than any member of Jensen’s crew.

Orders are coming in at a steady pace but there’s room for Jensen to hear himself think, and that’s never a good sign. He was drawn to the hustle and noise of a full caliber kitchen in the first place in order to lose himself—to get as far away from his thoughts as possible. After graduation, his dreams changed from aspirations of a quiet bistro where he’d be able to enjoy his food _and_ his customers, to the incessant throb of a world-class restaurant where chefs never sleep and there’s no time to think of anything but the food.

Jensen adds finely grated Italian sheep’s milk cheese, loaded with peppercorns, to his sauce, stirring around English peas and mushrooms. Libby’s passing the salmon off to Dom, who’s ready with the roasted vegetables. By the time the plate reaches Jensen, the white butter and apple sauce is finished, and the pasta’s _al dente_. The filet, finished with leeks and fingerling potatoes, is in Jensen’s hands a few seconds later.

Genevieve’s there to pick up the order and on her way out of the kitchen while the food’s piping hot and exquisite. Another ticket’s printing up when Miranda slinks through the swinging door, zucchini-green eyes fixed on Jensen. Her square-necked, red dress clings, an onyx choker wrapped above the divot between her collarbones. Miranda’s taste in fashion and jewelry has risen considerably in price since the divorce.

“You’ll never guess who’s being seated right now.”

Jensen’s not particularly interested. Ever since Riverside’s reinvention, he and Miranda have maintained different notions of VIPs. “If it means another order, I’m happy.”

She laughs. “Reid Canton! I know he’s moved on from the newspaper scene, but he could still write us up somewhere. I’ve heard rumors about some new project he’s trying to develop. Drop by his table,” she orders. “Find out why he’s here and try to work in a bit of publicity.”

“I’m busy back here,” Jensen tells her, thanking the gods of coincidence that another ticket pops up. “Cold apps! Full oyster plate, two field greens, and one Caesar.” Turning back to Miranda, he says, “You can talk to him.”

“Foodies like Canton want to see chefs, not owners,” Miranda insists, visibly put off. “If you think shouting orders like a drill sergeant is more important than good press, I’ll send Paul.”

Jensen doesn’t know who she’s talking about until Dawson appears at Jensen’s station, beaming. Jensen tends to forget that his sous chef has a first name that isn’t _Fucking_.

Paul Dawson is shorter than Jensen’s six-foot-one, with a celery-stalk body that goes straight up and down. A break that never healed right turns his nose to the left, and there’s a dent across the bridge. With tepid blue eyes, buzzed brown hair, and an onion-shaped face, Jensen’s new sous chef isn’t particularly good looking. But it’s Dawson’s grating personality and obnoxious attitude that are losing him points day after day in Jensen’s kitchen.

“I don’t mind,” Dawson tells them. “I think we can spare one chef for a few minutes.”

“Hold up.” Jensen’s not about to let Dawson vomit his lack of personality all over one of Charleston’s most recognized culinary authorities. “I’ve got it. Dom! You’ve got tickets and sauté.”

“Right on,” Dom says, hurrying over and seamlessly fitting himself behind the four pans Jensen’s got working.

Miranda and Dawson protest at the same time.

“Jensen—”

“Wait a minute—” 

“I’ve known Reid for a while,” Jensen says, untying his apron and smoothing his coat. “Let me take care of him.”

Walking into the dining room is like entering another world. Gone are the efficient lines of stainless steel and clean, white walls—no décor to distract from the tasks at hand—and in their place are dark chairs with enticingly curved legs that promise comfort but don’t quite deliver, a lighting scheme that’s neither flattering nor particularly well-thought out, and scorched copper walls lit up with unnecessary sconces. Jensen’s happy to see that the hostess is seating one couple while two other tables are perusing open menus. Maybe the night’s not a loss after all.

In one of the corner booths, Jensen finds Reid Canton sitting cozily next to another well-dressed man. “Reid, I appreciate you coming out in the rain to give us some business.”

“It’s a special occasion,” the writer explains, standing and returning Jensen’s cordial handshake. He indicates the man sitting beside him. “This is my partner, Andrew.”

Reid is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome with cocoa colored hair that’s frosted at the temples, and deep brown eyes. His regal forehead slopes to a proud nose, topping a full mouth and prominent, European chin. He’s dressed in a narrowly cut black shirt and charcoal pants, whereas his sandy-haired boyfriend sports a silver-gray suit paired with a sky blue shirt to enhance the color of his eyes. 

“Tonight is our second anniversary and there was no way we were giving up our reservations because of a little rain.”

Jensen’s glad he chose not to let Miranda force her way into their dinner. If Reid’s here to enjoy himself, a constant grating presence would curdle the mood. On the other hand, Jensen only wants to do what he does best, and that’s to make superb, unrivaled dishes that his customers will remember.

“Listen,” Jensen says, “I don’t want to get in the way of your evening, but if you’ll indulge me, I want to create a special menu for the two of you.”

Reid’s speechless and Andy says, “Wow, Jensen. That would be amazing. Reid’s told me wonderful things about your food—”

“And only your food,” Reid jokes, curling an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “I tried not to mention how good looking you were.”

Jensen laughs. “Just relax and I’ll take care of everything.”

He excuses himself with their thanks, assembling dishes in his head based on what he recalls about Reid’s tastes. While he wrote for the _Post & Courier_, Reid had reviewed a number of Jensen’s old employers and Jensen had devoured every critique when they went to print.

Snagging Genevieve by the bar, Jensen tells her to bring two glasses of Prosecco to Reid’s table. “Tell Julie to throw them on my tab,” he adds, knowing that Riverside’s bar manager keeps a tight lid on inventory, regardless of Jensen’s intentions to comp the ticket later tonight.

Miranda’s waiting in the kitchen for his report and she’s unhappy when Jensen explains that Reid’s not here to be worked over. Dawson throws hostile glances at Jensen over the sherry and celery leaf emulsion he’s making in accordance with Jensen’s recipe.

Let them both stew, he decides. 

By nine o’clock the kitchen’s winding down—weather getting in the way of the late crowd. Jensen’s crew has worked through more than half of their prep list and is well into clean up when Riverside’s weeknight maître d sticks his head into the kitchen and informs them the waitstaff’s been cut to one. That’s Jensen’s cue to leave the kitchen in Dom’s capable hands, even though Dawson’s been nipping at Jensen’s heels for a chance to run late-night. As sous chef, it should be Dawson’s prerogative, but Jensen enjoys his little coups.

Escaping to his office, Jensen bares his teeth at the unshrinking pile of paperwork on his desk. Running orders and drafting schedules means he’s not cooking, and if Jensen’s not cooking, he’s not happy.

“Jensen?” Genevieve’s slim figure curves around the doorjamb. Her generous smile tells Jensen the tips were good tonight. “Someone’s back here to see you.”

Reid appears behind her and Jensen waves him into the office.

“Amazing, Jensen,” Reid responds to Jensen asking how dinner was. “Andy won’t be able to stop talking about it for a week.”

“Y’all deserved a great night.”

“You didn’t have to take care of the bill though,” Reid says, faint liquor flush in his cheeks. “I left the ‘food critic’ at home tonight.”

“That’s why I did it. You’re less of an asshole when you’re off the clock.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what Andy tells me.” They both laugh, Reid less inhibited as if he hasn’t stopped celebrating yet. Jensen’s too much of a cynic to expound on the way Reid lights up when mentioning his boyfriend, but his mind takes a note or two. “But thank you again for tonight. I owe you one, Jensen.”

That’s not a favor Jensen intends to waste. Charleston’s food and wine scene is expansive and famously diverse, and there are plenty of food writers out there, but Reid Canton is the best. 

“In fact,” Reid says, tapping at the doorframe, “maybe you could take a look at something I’m putting together.”

“Right now?”

Reid’s gaze sweeps over Jensen’s messy desk. “Oh no. I don’t have anything ready to print yet, but I’d love your opinion once I get to that stage.”

“Are you going to give me a hint about what it is?” Jensen asks.

The writer smiles and shakes his head. “You’ll appreciate it, I promise. I’ll make sure you get a proof when it’s ready.”

Reid thanks him again and finds his own way out of the kitchen, leaving Jensen wondering what sort of project would entice Reid away from the glamorous title he’d held with the city’s newspaper.

Keeping an ear out for any emergencies, Jensen divides his paperwork and attempts to conquer a small stack, adjusting his orders for the weekend. The paperwork leaves the unoccupied portion of his mind free to think about what Sebastian had said during Jensen’s session.

It was absurd for Sebastian to imply that Jensen was trying to replace Josh. His brother can’t be replaced, and even if he could, Josh isn’t _gone_. They talk through email at least four or five times a week, phone calls whenever the ridiculous twelve hour time difference allows, and Skype when their schedules sync up. Jensen gets everything except for Josh’s physical presence, and since they haven’t lived together in years, Jensen likes to think he’s managing that loss.

Jensen wishes he’d never mentioned Jared during therapy. That way, he wouldn’t have to over-analyze Jared’s impact on his life. Being with Jared is effortless, and with all the crap Jensen’s forced to put up with here, he needs someone to pull him off the stove when he starts to bubble over.

His cell phone rings and startles him. After a search that sends orders flying, he palms his phone and looks at the screen.

 _Jared_.

*****

 **HOME**

The rain has weakened to here-and-there showers by the time Jensen gets home. He pulls two beers from the beverage fridge in the butler’s pantry—the one Josh insisted he’d never use, but was always stocked with beer and wine whenever Jensen came over—and carries them to the counter. The snap of the caps is lost under the hum of another car pulling up in the driveway.

Jensen meets Jared on the front porch where the gas lamps are flickering in the humid air. Through his neighbor’s open shutters, Jensen can make out the opening splash of the local news. He and Jared exchange timid smiles; Jensen’s not sure what to say and he imagines that Jared doesn’t know where to begin. Silence reigns until Jared drops his bags in the hallway and accepts the bottle Jensen offers.

“Thanks for letting me come over so late,” Jared says after downing a quarter of his beer in one go.

Jensen checks the clock on the microwave and shrugs. “We actually wrapped up pretty early because of the storm. I think we only did about half the business we were expecting.”

“Oh, that sucks.”

“It happens,” he says, more interested in Jared.

Jared is fidgeting, eager to talk, but a sudden scratching startles them both.

“Shit, I let the dogs out as soon as I got home.” Before Jensen can move, Jared crosses to the sliding door, letting Scout and Paisley inside. The dogs pay no attention to Jensen, skittering around Jared’s shins as if starving for his attention. And Jared indulges them for a moment, long fingers rubbing behind their ears in a manner that looks way too comforting.

Jensen shakes himself out of it.

“Back,” Jared commands softly, and the dogs obey. “Sit.”

“I can’t believe how well you’ve got Paisley trained. She was never this calm before.” He watches Jared pour more food into their bowls, down to half a beer by the time Jared’s in front of him again, shifting from foot to foot.

“So what happened?”

Jared’s sigh is long and painful. “God, I’m so pissed off. Matt I could live with—he’s only really annoying when he drinks.”

“Which is, like, every other night?” Jensen asks, feeling bad when Jared winces at the amount of sarcasm. “Sorry.”

“It’s kinda true. Anyway, I told you before that Federico and Rich have started to bring home these really creepy people, and they’re always high or something.” Jared wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I swear they don’t even go to class anymore which, hey, it’s not my problem, but when they’re hanging around the place all day and I’m not there…”

“Yeah, that’d freak me out, too,” Jensen says. He grabs another beer for each of them, pausing at Jared’s shoulder to give him a friendly nudge.

“Tonight I came back from my late class and this guy was just hanging out in my room. Fed and Rich weren’t even there. I have no idea how he got in my room since I locked it, but he was going through my books and my notes.” Jared’s breaths are coming faster and faster, throat tense as he talks through the anger. “I kicked him out and waited until Rich got home, but he just”—Jared stops with a huff of pure frustration—“he just laughed and told me it wasn’t a big deal. Like, I shouldn’t mind as long as the guy didn’t steal anything.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know! I just packed up my valuable stuff and called you.”

Ever since he’d answered Jared’s call at the restaurant, Jensen’s been wondering why Jared thought of him first. In the last three weeks, they’ve spent more time together—sharing leftovers if Jared’s around late or getting dragged to the park whenever Jared’s in a “force-Jensen-to-be-athletic” mood—which has inevitably strengthened their friendship. Truth is, Jensen’s been thinking of Jared as his pseudo-roommate for a while now, something much stronger than a casual employer/employee relationship. Maybe that bond goes both ways.

“I barely know these guys anymore,” Jared is saying. “Rich and Matt are the only ones on the lease, so it’s not like I can ask them to move out or anything.”

“You can’t live there anymore.” Jensen’s a straight-shooter in the kitchen as well; nothing gets done without a clear directive. “I know you’ve been stressed out for a while, and it doesn’t seem like your buddies are gonna turn themselves around anytime soon.”

Jared’s shoulders are slumped, the normally broad line wilted into a frown. “Yeah, I’m kinda resigned to couch-hopping at least until graduation. Starting with yours,” he adds with a gaping yawn.

“This isn’t a frat house, Jared. You get the guestroom.”

“Seriously?”

Jensen eyes make the long journey up from Jared’s toes to his eager gaze. “If you want to contort yourself on the couch, feel free. But it wasn’t built for a colossus.” It’s satisfying to know he can get a genuine laugh out of Jared even when life kicks him to the curb.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” he tells Jared. “Paisley won’t be able to resist sleeping in a new bed, which means I’ll wake up without dog breath in my face. That’s a win-win.”

Jared reaches down to give the spaniel a soft pat on the head. “Aw, she’s not so bad.”

While Jared’s getting settled in the guest bedroom, Jensen retreats to the master under the absurd pretense of picking out towels. He’s not questioning his decision to let Jared stay for the night, but he’s worried about the fact that he could so easily offer more. Wants to. Jared’s been the most stable thing in his life for the last few months, and Jensen knows not to let go of a good thing. 

Jensen imagines how they’d get along if they lived together. There’d be no wondering if Jared was going to swing by and spend more time at the house than his obligations called for; no need to worry about Jared surviving in his crazy housing situation. And Jensen knows he’s thinking in selfish terms, but he misses having someone around—someone to look for when he comes home.

But he can’t get ahead of himself—Jared’s only staying for one night.

He drops the two largest towels he could find off in the guest room, startling Jared who has already plugged in his cell phone charger and set his laptop on the dresser. Paisley’s sniffing around Jared’s bags, snubbed tail wiggling back and forth. Scout’s there, too, stretched out on his side at the foot of the bed.

“Anything I can grab for you? I think the bathroom’s stocked with whatever you’ll need.”

“It’s great, Jensen. Thanks.” 

Yeah, Jared is definitely more chipper now that he gets a bed instead of a couch. He needs real sleep to erase the shadowed rings under his eyes, ease the lines around his mouth.

Nodding towards his room, Jensen says, “I’m gonna change and then head back to the kitchen. I stay up pretty late, but feel free to crash.”

He’s tempted to stay in the doorway and watch Jared strip out of a few of his layers. (Jensen never stopped to consider how having Jared sleeping under the same roof—and changing, and showering—is going to affect his jerk-off fantasies.) Instead, he slips away quietly. Because the absolute last thing Jared needs is for someone else to infringe on his privacy.

Back in the kitchen, Jensen scoops out some of Mark’s made-from-scratch cherry and walnut ice cream and sits at the counter with one of his moleskins. It’s as close to a nightly ritual as Jensen has; starting with one flavor or one ingredient that had popped into his head during the course of dinner, he lets his thoughts wander. He samples with his mind, discarding tastes and combinations when they don’t work, and notes what he thinks will work in his messy scrawl. It’s free association using food, and it’s helped him create more than one spectacular plate.

He hasn’t wandered very far when Jared startles him.

“Is there any ice cream left?”

“Thought you were going to bed,” Jensen says, scratching his chest through his t-shirt.

“I’m tired, but my mind’s still working through everything, so I might as well be productive. Right?”

“Pull up a stool and I’ll grab some for you.”

“I’ve got it, you don’t need to wait on me,” Jared says as he pulls out a bowl and he scoops the ice cream. Jensen’s thrown off, he’d honestly forgotten that Jared knows his way around the house better than he does.

“Oh my god, this is amazing,” Jared says, slurping rivers of cherry and vanilla from his spoon. “Did Mark make this?”

“Yup, and he doesn’t know I took so much home, so let’s keep this between us.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence; Jared’s got his cell phone out, thumbs quietly tapping out text after text. Jensen pretends to brainstorm but he’s going nowhere, too focused on the clink of Jared’s spoon against his dish, soft taps on the touchscreen, and sharing the quiet with the rhythm of someone else’s breath.

“My mom keeps texting me,” Jared says when Jensen’s staring becomes obvious.

“This late?”

“She was worried about me, you know how moms—” he cuts himself off. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say—”

Jensen drops his pen then rubs the side of his face. “It’s okay. My mom was the same way—always checking in.”

“Yeah, I…anyway,” Jared coughs through his own awkwardness, “I told her I was here and that things’ll be fine. Plus I’m trying to set up a meeting with my marketing group sometime tomorrow, and they’re being really non-committal since it’s Friday and no one wants to change their plans.”

Jared keeps talking about grades and priorities, but Jensen’s stuck on the mention of their mothers. He’s aware of that hollowed-out space in his heart that’s never going to heal, but he’s calm. Apparently, Jared can bring up his parents without triggering Jensen’s fight-or-flight instinct. Not even the most seasoned members of Jensen’s crew can boast that distinction.

Eventually the night catches up with Jared, and Jensen waves him off to the guest room with a smile and a promise not to wake Jensen up when he leaves for class. He lets the dogs out one more time and watches them scamper off towards Jared’s room (and how did it stop being the _guest room_ already? Jared’s only staying the night…) as soon as they come back in.

Jensen locks up, shuts off the lights, and settles into the king-size bed without his usual furry company, but not minding a bit. He could swear the house feels different and he’s asleep in minutes.

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

Jensen shuts himself in his office after yelling for Dom to cover orders. Dawson had been in the walk-in at the time so Jensen didn’t have to deal with his pouting.

Phone in hand, Jensen opens his call log, taps a name halfway down, and then counts out long seconds for the call to connect.

“Josh.”

“Jen, hey.” Josh’s voice always sounds extra distorted from the thousands of miles between them. “I was wondering when we’d get a chance to talk. Are you at work?”

“Yeah, and we’re surprisingly busy for a Monday night. Are you just getting into the office?”

“On my way, actually,” Josh responds, a slight lag in transmission. “Not much gets you away from the line when it’s busy, so what’s up?”

Trust Josh to skip right to the point even though they haven’t talked voice-to-voice in nearly a week. “It’s about Jared.”

“Oh yeah, I read your email. Tough break for the guy having to move out so close to graduation. How’s he doing?”

“Good. I mean, having him at the house is easy, but he hasn’t made progress on finding another place to live.” Jensen sighs. “He picked up most of the stuff from his old apartment and he’s keeping it in his car.”

“Why don’t—” Josh tries to cut in, but Jensen’s still going.

“It sucks to see him worrying about it, and I don’t think crashing on people’s couches is going to help him out, stress-wise.”

“Jen—”

“And if he does find a place, and it’s on the other side of town, then I don’t know how he’s going to manage with the dogs, or—”

“Oh my god,” Josh laughs as soon as Jensen pauses to take a breath. “You’re an idiot.”

Waiting until the tinny laughter stops, Jensen says, “What the hell, Josh?”

“You can’t be this dense, man.”

“About what?”

“You want me to suggest it so you don’t have to?” Josh asks. “Will that make it easier for you?”

Jensen won’t admit to Josh, or especially to Sebastian who had probed Jensen on this very issue at the end of last week, that it would.

“Jesus, Jen. Just ask Jared to move into the house with you.”

“Josh…”

“C’mon, man,” Josh says, “I know you’ve thought about it. I could tell that much from your emails. You like the guy and this’ll solve everybody’s problems.”

“Yeah,” Jensen hesitates, “but it’s your house.”

“And from what you’ve told me, Jared’s the one taking care of it.” Josh means it as a joke, but there’s truth to it. “If you’re asking whether or not I mind, I don’t. Gemma won’t either, so don’t use her as an excuse.” As if he’s interpreting Jensen’s silence, Josh adds, “He’s not gonna turn you down if you ask, Jen. He came to you first, right?”

Jensen paces around his desk, listening to the muffled sound of Dom’s voice calling out a long order. “Yeah, he did.”

“You guys are friends now,” Josh says. “He trusts you. He won’t say no.”

He wishes he could absorb Josh’s confidence. From that first night Jared came to stay, Jensen knew this was a possibility. But despite Josh’s assurances, Jensen has reason to believe Jared might say no; it’s the way his eyes are guarded sometimes when Jensen’s in the room, or the way he doesn’t suggest plans as freely anymore, waiting for Jensen to say something. Jared’s not avoiding him—they’ve had no problems sharing the same space—but he could be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Hey, I just got to the office and I’m sure you’re dying to get back in the kitchen,” Josh says, kicking Jensen out of his thoughts. “Let me know what he says, okay? I should be heading to lunch around the time you get home.”

Josh hangs up and Jensen hurries out of his office. On the line, there’s no room for any other thoughts—that’s one reason Jensen’s addicted to his job—so there’s no time to second guess his decision

He sneaks up behind Dom who’s struggling with six sauté pans, another order printing up. “You bitches can’t last five minutes without me, huh?” he asks, knowing exactly when to duck to avoid taking a full leek to the head, courtesy of Dom.

Jensen laughs, grabs the new ticket, and takes over three of the sauté pans.

“Alright, I need…”

*****

 **TWO WEEKS LATER**

**RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“I’m telling you, butternut squash is a fall flavor.”

“And we already have ravioli on the menu,” Dom adds to back Jensen up.

Dawson stares at them from the other side of the bar. Next to him, Miranda’s eating her raviolo with gusto, pulling apart the carrot-colored pasta with her fork.

It’s Saturday night, forty-five minutes away from opening, and the dining room is empty of all but the staff. Philipa and Tara are at the host desk, both with long legs and wavy hair on display as they discuss bookings. Julie’s trying to get the bar set up, conveying frustration to Jensen with her eyes every time she has to nudge past Dawson and Miranda.

“I think it’s wonderfully inventive,” Miranda says, licking butter from the corner of her mouth. “We’ll run it as a special, see what kinds of reactions we get.”

“We have a special—” Jensen tries to say, but Miranda cuts him off with a haughty, “There’s no reason we can’t add another one.”

Dawson leans down and kisses her on the cheek, eyes never leaving Jensen’s face, and Jensen feels as if he’s been dunked in an ice bucket like a bottle of white wine.

“Fine,” Jensen growls. “Give everyone the details, and make sure they get it right. I don’t want any mystery pasta coming out of my kitchen.” With that, he pushes off his barstool and makes for the kitchen, unwilling to stick around and listen to Dawson’s reaction. Jensen has better things to do.

Putting Dawson out of his mind, Jensen finishes his prep and puts his station in order, ready for a fully booked dinner. He’s in the walk-in grabbing more _pecorino pepato_ from among a first-class selection of rich, gourmet cheeses when his night takes a scalding. Dawson enters the refrigerator behind him and closes the door, blocking Jensen’s way out.

“Shouldn’t you be ramming your butter _nuts_ down Miranda’s throat?”

“She enjoyed that, didn’t she?”

Jensen ignores his sous chef, taking stock of the shelves in front of him. His breath clouds in front of his nose, chill creeping in under his crisp white jacket. Smells drift around him, mixed by the push of the fans and the air exchange: shallots and kale, apples and cranberries, whipped goat cheese and soft Havarti.

“I’ve got a theory, you know.”

“On your absolute failure as a chef?” Jensen sneers. “Oh, do tell.”

“On why you don’t want me in your kitchen.”

Jensen scoffs. “Just one? I’ve got a dozen.”

Before he can blink, Dawson’s pressing into Jensen’s space, wedging him back against a metal rack. Jensen’s muscles are coiled tight, ready to force Dawson away, but what he says shocks the momentum out of Jensen’s body.

“You’re so cold towards me, Jensen,” he mutters, warm breath smacking Jensen on the cheek. Smells like pesto left to simmer for too long, burnt oil and basil. “But I think I can change that.” Angling his hips, Dawson rubs his thigh against the front of Jensen’s pants, and to his utter disgust, he feels Dawson growing hard through the friction. In no way does Jensen sense _any_ kind of attraction or desire in Dawson’s assault—it’s spite, pure and simiple.

Dawson keeps his voice low when he says, “Maybe a little bit of this’ll warm you up.”

Jensen’s repulsion manifests physically —a wave of disgust rolling through his body at the same time his brain is flipped to the raw side. His instincts fire up and he shoves Dawson away.

“What the fuck?” Jensen shouts, but to anyone outside the refrigerator it would sound muted and dull, silent behind the rest of the kitchen noise.

Dawson throws his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to make an offer here.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Jensen hisses, anger replacing nausea.

“Oh come on, Jensen,” the sous chef argues, continuing to block the door. His irritation is hideous, mauling his features until they’re too sharp. “Don’t act so surprised. I’ve heard all about you and what goes on in your walk-ins,” he adds, turning words into weapons.

So much for Jensen’s fond memories of making out with Renner in this very walk-in.

Red seeps into Jensen’s vision. This goes beyond the jokes and lewd comments he’s used to his crew pulling (because even the best kitchens devolve into frat houses from time to time). Cornered, sick, and with a sizzling temper, Jensen pushes back with an ‘offer’ of his own. 

“Get the hell out of my way—”

Dawson reaches out. “This way we both get something we want.”

“—before you lose your fucking job and the use of your hands,” Jensen finishes the threat, words so cold his breath turns to ice.

Seconds before Jensen’s rage erupts into violence, Dawson steps back. His voice is runny as he tries to placate Jensen. “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Jensen smiles maliciously. “You bet I can.”

As much as he craves the privacy of his office, Jensen refuses to hide. He slams the walk-in door—with Dawson still inside—and stalks over to the line. Thoughts a mess, he fans the flames of his anger so as not to lose himself to humiliation.

If Jensen closes his eyes he can feel phantom snakes slithering up his legs, leaving cold slime on his skin. Mortification turns him sick and green, skins him down. The anger is easier to endure.

God help Dawson if he breathes a word of this to anyone.

Jensen stares at the printer, more than ready for the first order. He’s desperate to lose himself in the rush, the chaos of fine dining. If he can focus on the food, he won’t lose his mind; it’s a technique Jensen’s applied far too many times in his life. One madness to replace another.

Dom’s just coming back from the dishwasher with an armful of sauté pans, dropping them with a clatter when he sees Jensen’s expression.

“Whoa. What crawled up your ass?”

Jensen ignores the question and slings an arm around Dom’s shoulders. “How do you feel about drinking?”

“It oughta be done early and often,” Dom jokes. “Why?”

Jensen looks across the kitchen and catches Dawson watching him. His upper lip curls when he says, “I think we’re going out tonight.”

*****

 **THE BLIND TIGER PUB  
BROAD STREET, CHARLESON**

“Bottle of beer. Shot of Jack. And keep ‘em coming.”

Their first round’s gone in a flash as Dom and Jensen down their shots. Beer chasers become a full-on race as they see who can finish their bottle first. Jensen wins; he tells himself he’s got superior motivation to get wasted. Next to them at the bar, Libby’s halfway through her rum and diet while Saban’s acting all prissy with his bottle of Pellegrino. Saban’s been sober for three years, and thank God, because Jensen doesn’t like to imagine how much worse of a reprobate he’d be if he still drank—the man’s bad enough already. Just ask Libby. Mark had disappeared as soon as they walked into the Blind Tiger, but they save him a stool at the bar just in case.

Jensen welcomes the burn of his second shot. The Jack dulls his memories, and that’s exactly the side-effect Jensen’s aiming for. He washes the Tennessee medicine down with cold beer until the space between his ears is light and buzzing.

“Miranda wants me to give Dawson his own night,” Jensen says, skipping over the walk-in incident entirely and going right to what happened when Miranda approached him in his office after the rush. He’s met with a chorus of ‘no’, ‘fuck no’, and something unintelligibly vulgar from Mark—who’d mysteriously reappeared in the group like some kind of foul-mouthed wizard.

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dom points out the obvious, but Jensen drinks to it nonetheless. “I don’t even get my own shift.”

“You’d have to be screwing Miranda to get it,” Saban adds, and the rest of them take another drink just to wash away the thought.

Dom shakes his head, lips pinched. “Not worth it. Totally not worth it.”

Mark contemplates his scotch and says, “The man’s got his fist so far up Miranda’s arse—”

“Oh my god—”

“Ugh, no!”

“Dude, seriously…”

“—she might as well be a bloody ventriloquist doll. He’s doing all the talking.”

“You really think he’s sleeping with her?” Libby asks. None of them really want to think about it, Jensen especially, but their livelihoods are on the line. “I mean, I’ve done some pretty nasty things to get ahead—”

“That hurts, Lib,” Saban holds his hand to his heart.

“Oh fuck off,” she laughs, fine brown hair shaking loose from her messy ponytail.

Used to his crew’s banter, Jensen questions their theory on Dawson. Up until tonight, Jensen would have wholeheartedly agreed that his sous chef was fucking Miranda for added perks. Maybe he was stringing her along—preferential treatment in exchange for something much more personal that he has yet to pay up on. Jensen almost feels bad for Miranda, but she plays her own games. They deserve one another.

“And I hate his bloody name,” Mark’s grousing.

“Fuck Dawson!” Dom shouts, whiskey breath hitting Jensen in the face. “From now on, let’s call him Paul”

“Yeah.” Libby’s expression is flat. “Because that will show him.”

“Oh c’mon. He’ll hate it!”

Though it’ll do little to solve his problems, Jensen agrees with Dom. Dawson will loathe being called by his pedestrian first name. That alone is reason enough to do it, even if it’s a childish idea.

Another hour in and Jensen’s starting to relax, nursing his beers instead of chain-drinking. He keeps his phone on the bar and every so often it lights up with a text from Jared. His roommate is downtown celebrating a friend’s birthday at another bar. Jensen smiles at the latest message.

_Want to meet up later?_

_Mark is scary. Dom’s getting shit-faced_ , he types. _Saban keeps trying 2 show Libby his dick_. In the next message, he writes, _Might as well stay where u are and enjoy urself_. Considering the amount he’s already had to drink, Jensen quickly sends another text. _Want 2 give me a ride home?_

_Having that much fun, huh?_

_I don’t shoot Jack for fun, J._

_Yikes. Yeah, I’ll def give you a ride. Will let u know when I’m leaving._

Saban’s the first to abandon the festivities, followed fifteen minutes later by Libby. Mark vanishes without a word while Dom and Jensen are arguing over a game of darts where neither one of them is the obvious winner. While the last men standing are ordering another round, Stacy shows up and Dom wraps her in what looks to be a suffocating hug. He listens to Stacy’s sugary voice getting a sloppy Dom to agree to go mattress shopping the next day while he keeps track of Jared’s progress via text. Suddenly, he’s more than ready to be home with Jared and the dogs.

Not much later, Dom wobbles back from the bathroom. Stacy stands and he tucks the tall redhead under his arm like a crutch. “How ‘bout you, Jen? You’re welcome to crash on our sofa.”

“Nah, Jared said he’d give me a ride,” Jensen says, pulling out his phone and grinning when he sees another text from his roommate. “He’s on his way over from the Vendue.”

“So you’re good if we head out?” Stacy asks.

“Yeah, get him out of here,” Jensen tells her, waving at Dom. “I’m sick of lookin’ at him.”

She laughs, blush filling in the space between her light freckles. “If I had to look at him every day for as long as you do, I’d be sick of him, too.”

Dom whines, “Baby…” and they both laugh.

Left alone in a crowded room, Jensen finishes off a bottle of water before he checks his phone again.

_Just leaving the garage. Be there in a few._

Jensen signals for his check, ignoring the bartender’s pout. Despite Jensen’s total lack of response, the guy’s been flirting with him all night. After his _bad touching_ experience in the walk-in with Dawson, Jensen’s definitely not in the mood. Mr. Popped Collar will just have to turn his attention elsewhere if he’s looking to bring someone home.

Another text pops up.

_Do I have to come in and get u? Fare goes up if I have to carry u out._

_Paying up. Out in a few._ As he’s waiting for his credit card slip, he adds, _I’m so heavy you’d charge me?_

_$$ for emotional trauma. Hurry up._

A tapered chest wearing a green polo shirt leans into Jensen’s view. Mr. Popped Collar just can’t take a hint. 

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else tonight?”

“I’m good,” he says, and is surprised to find he means it. 

Smiling as he hears the ding of another text arriving—it’s adorable that Jared’s impatient—Jensen takes his receipt and signs it without looking up.

*****

 **HOME**

Something smells divine.

Convinced it’s an ingredient in his dream, Jensen rolls over and presses his face into the pillow, trying to escape the sunlight crawling between plantation shutters. But the aroma is snuffed out by the scent of cotton, sweat, and laundry detergent.

Like a cartoon character floating along behind a smoky waft, Jensen ignores his mild hangover and follows his nose, sitting up and pulling a clean white tee over his bare chest. The trail leads him to the kitchen where Jensen has to blink several times to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing.

Jared’s in the middle of a kitchen hurricane, whisking his hips to a silent beat. Paisley’s dancing around his feet while Scout’s watching both from the safety of the hall rug, muzzle up in the air to catch the same smells that lured Jensen out of bed. Jensen’s eyes are stuck on his roommate’s swaying hips, apron ties swinging across the back of his thighs. There are bowls on the counter, fruit and juice on the island, and oh! Coffee already brewing. In here, that delicious smell is a full-bodied experience for Jensen’s nose.

“Cardamom?”

Jared twirls around. “Hey! You’re up.” There are powdered handprints on the apron Jared’s wearing—a gift from Jensen to his brother two Christmases ago—and his feet are bare, toes peeking out from beneath the hem of his cherry red track pants. He’s smiling at Jensen. “Figures you’d guess my secret ingredient.”

“Mmm, ingredient for what?” Jensen steps closer to investigate. His headache is waning with every inhale of that resinous fragrance.

“Pancakes, my own recipe. Well, my mom’s, but I perfected it,” Jared proudly adds. “I was gonna make breakfast anyway, but I found the cardamom when I was looking for cinnamon. You don’t mind, do you?”

Jensen’s grin is stuck in place. “Kitchens are for cooking. Especially this kitchen. Can I help?”

Jared laughs, stepping around Paisley. “The renowned chef, Jensen Ackles, is helping me?”

“Been a while since I was the apprentice.”

“In that case, do you have a crêpe pan somewhere around here?”

Jared bosses him around the kitchen, grinning every time Jensen hands something over. Jensen can just imagine the look on his crew’s faces if he ever smiled and thanked them for doing their jobs. But hey, Jared’s entitled to his own style, Jensen thinks with a silent chuckle.

Jensen’s never been creative about breakfast foods—or, God forbid, brunch—the way he is with lunch and dinner entrees, so it’s fascinating to watch Jared dance around the kitchen, talking a-mile-a-minute about the family breakfasts he grew up with. He even manages to forget about his hangover until Jared pours the first pancake.

“God, I’m starving.”

“Don’t worry, these won’t take long to cook,” Jared says, spreading the thin batter around the bottom of the pan with a smooth twirl of his wrist. “Hey, do you have any whipped cream for the fruit?”

“I’ve got the fresh stuff.” Jensen pulls a bowl out of the fridge. The cream smells wonderful; he can’t resist dipping a finger in and licking it off.

“Saw that,” Jared teases. “Give me some.”

Without stopping to think it through, Jensen scoops another dollop with his finger, holding it up for Jared. It’s not until Jared’s mouth is touching his skin that he thinks about what he’s doing. He feels smooth lips, the tiniest slip of a tongue against his nail as Jared sucks the rich topping off his finger.

That image will definitely be added to a few of Jensen’s fantasies.

“Mmm, perfect.” Jared releases his finger before Jensen’s thin pajama pants become an issue. He notes the beginnings of a blush on Jared’s high cheekbones before he turns back to the stove.

Jared rolls up each pancake and stacks them under a foil cover, smacking Jensen’s hand away when he makes a grab for one. “No samples in my kitchen,” he says with a wink.

Jensen lets Jared dish up their plates—“presentation is key,” Jared tells him, mocking one of Jensen’s serious expressions—impressed with the final results. Warm, richly scented pancakes rolled up and flattened under a mountain of sweet, fresh fruit. Jared adds a spoonful of whipped cream to each plate, blushing again, and drizzles syrup over the entire thing. Jensen is so desperate to eat it, he’s practically panting, and Jensen Ackles _never_ pants over food made by someone in bare feet.

There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

Jared’s breakfast tastes as good as it looks, and talking is put on hold while they eat at the counter, both dogs lying on the tile at their feet. When the first serving is gone, Jared divides the rest of the pancakes between their plates, giving Jensen the extra. “You’d probably steal it off my plate if I didn’t,” he says, which Jensen acknowledges is probably the truth. He’d risk a fork to the hand for another pancake.

Existing in a comfortable bubble where his stomach is full, his taste-buds are satisfied, and his headache is reduced to a distant throb, Jensen closes his eyes and savors the moment. It’s practically perfect, and he hasn’t counted many of those lately.

*****

“Did you have a good time last night?” Jared asks, stepping out onto the screened-in porch. Jensen hears the dishwasher humming steadily in the background. They’ve moved outside, coffees in hand, watching Paisley try to lure Scout into playing with her in the backyard. The breeze is cool, lifting the long strands of Spanish moss away from the oak branches it clings to.

“I guess. I wasn’t really drinking to have ‘a good time.’”

“You were drinking with a purpose,” Jared says. Jensen notices that it’s not a question. “I’ve had a few nights like that. So, what happened?”

“Hmm?”

“What pissed you off? I bet it had something to do with Dawson.”

Just hearing Paul’s name makes the heaviness return to Jensen’s head. He indulges in a long sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine will counter the effect. When Jared brews the coffee, it’s never as strong as the pots Jensen tends to make, and his stomach is grateful for it this morning.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay,” Jensen says, because he wants to. Maybe it’s being here, in Josh’s home, or the fact that Jared’s isn’t dissecting him with his stare, but it’s easier to talk to Jared than it is answering Sebastian’s questions.

He talks out Miranda’s idea—a ‘suggestion’ in name only—to give Paul his own shift, thoughts more rational than they were last night under the influence of beer and whiskey. Jared listens, steering Jensen’s words with a soft comment here and there so they don’t fall off course. The last thing Jensen wants to do is spend more time talking about Paul and Miranda than he has to.

“Man,” Jared sighs when Jensen’s said all he cares to on the subject, “that seriously sucks.”

“Now you know why I was drinking last night.”

Jared’s smile is as gentle as the breeze stirring the blades of grass. “And I don’t blame you one bit. Think Miranda’s gonna change her mind?” he asks, but Jensen’s expression must say it all. “Well, it’s still your kitchen, and I know you won’t let Miranda give away a good night. And hey, it might be a good thing.”

“How?”

“With everything you’ve told me about Dawson, he’ll probably fuck the whole night up or something. Your crew’s still gonna be there to take care of things, but if Dawson’s a total failure…”

“If I know my crew, they’ll make sure he fucks up on purpose,” Jensen says, a little viciousness back in his voice. Another reason he prefers Jared to Sebastian is that Jared doesn’t filter his responses. He’ll agree with Jensen—or strongly disagree; they’re not always reading the same recipe—without hiding his feelings behind a professional mask. Jensen prefers talking with somebody, not at them.

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. But until that happens and he totally gets fired, you’ll have one more free night to spend around here.” Jensen looks up and Jared laughs. “The dogs, man. I know they miss seeing you.”

“You’re their favorite.”

Jared’s lips quirk up at the corner. “You’ll get to hang out with me more often. I’m not all bad.”

“Nah, you’re all good,” Jensen teases in a low voice.

While Jensen continues to stock an entire inventory of misgivings about letting Miranda remove him from his own kitchen one night a week, he feels better. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, his body’s doing its best to remind him how much he drank last night, and he’s losing the battle to keep his eyes open.

And it seems Jared’s got the monopoly on energy and motivation today.

“Hey, I was gonna take Paisley and go for a run. You wanna come with us?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Jensen groans, feeling a bit like Scout when Paisley bounces around him, a silky brown ball of energy attempting to get him to play. And just like Scout, Jensen’s tempted to roll over and go back to sleep.

“Fine, be lazy,” Jared says with a smile. “I need to get my heart going.”

He’s gone before Jensen can suggest other, more creative ways to get his pulse racing. Probably for the best—Jensen’s not sure he can muster the energy for sustained flirting. He briefly reconsiders when Jared reappears in the backyard with Paisley’s leash in his hand, a gray v-neck tee and navy blue shorts making up his running ensemble. Jensen wouldn’t mind jogging behind him for a glimpse of his ass in those shorts, but the vise around his temples squeezes at the mere thought of strenuous physical activity.

Sleep is a much better plan.

*****

 **SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD, & ASSOCIATES**

_Jensen wakes up to the sound of barking and a heavier breeze. When he opens his eyes, Jared’s standing on the porch, his face tilted into the wind, hand wrapped around a bottle of water. Jensen traces the course of sweat as it runs from Jared’s forehead, under his jaw, and down his throat._

_Suddenly, Jensen’s unbelievably thirsty._

_The sweat stains on Jared’s t-shirt are painted over the shape of his muscles, but Jensen’s focused on the hollow between Jared’s collarbones, the skin slick and heated and flushed from the sun. His mouth waters at the thought of licking that skin, the flavors his tongue would find. He’s moaning before he can stop himself, and Jared looks down to where Jensen’s stretched out on the patio furniture._

“Jensen?”

“Hmm? Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

Sebastian smirks. “Contrary to your beliefs, I don’t book these appointments in order to sit here quietly and relax.” The therapist uses a friendly tone, but Jensen heeds the implied warning. “We were talking about Jared…”

“Yeah,” Jensen coughs, dispelling the rest of his daydream. Jared had come home sweaty from his Sunday run, and Jensen had obviously appreciated the sight, but that’s where the reality chopped off and became fantasy. “It’s been great, really.”

“How long has it been since you’ve had a roommate?”

Jensen whistles out a long breath, but he doesn’t need to think about it. “Since my brother and I moved into separate places, I guess. But we didn’t split up because we hated sharing our space,” he points out. “It was just the right time for us. And Jared’s pretty easy to live with. I’ve had time to get used to having him around.”

Sebastian steeples his fingers beneath his chin and Jensen winces at the gesture; his therapist is about to spring a deep thought on him.

“Come on,” Jensen tries to laugh when the silence carries on too long. “Just hit me with it, Doc.”

“I’m just wondering if you realize,” Sebastian says, “that you allow people into your home more easily than you do your kitchen.”

Jensen stammers. “That’s—wait, that’s a completely different set of circumstances.”

“Your sous chef and Jared were both strangers to you a few months ago.” The patience in Sebastian’s tone is misleading; his conclusions are well thought out. “Both took over some aspect of your life, and both were meant to make things easier on you, whether it was in maintaining your brother’s house or working in your kitchen.”

“I chose Jared,” Jensen stresses. “Paul was forced on me.” There’s an abundance of vinegar in his tone when he says Paul’s name for the therapist to note, but Jensen has no plans to elaborate. “There’s a huge difference between the two.” Explanations are rushing from his mind to his mouth, and Jensen refuses to look over and see Sebastian’s mouth flick upwards in self-satisfaction. “I can coexist with Jared, but Paul is a threat. Miranda’s using him to gain ground in my kitchen, and he’s taking advantage of Miranda’s need for attention to get whatever he wants!”

Sebastian consults his scribble. “Like his own shift?”

“That,” he huffs, “and new dishes that don’t fit with the menu. Soon he’ll be rearranging the schedules behind my back and ordering whatever he wants.”

As if there is steam visibly curling from Jensen’s ears, Sebastian doesn’t provoke further comment. “But,” he says instead, “now that you’ve handed Paul a less desirable weeknight shift, you can take more time for yourself.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Jensen asks, expression switching to play defense. “If I wanted time off, I could have scheduled it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Jensen’s anticipating the question. “I don’t need it. Being a chef means you don’t get a regularly scheduled week. Taking time off isn’t the point. I don’t mind putting in the long hours to make my kitchen better, and the last thing I want to do is leave it in the hands of someone less-capable. And I shouldn’t have to in order to satisfy Miranda and her pet chef.” The deep breath he takes smothers some of the burn in his lungs. “I know a dozen chefs who would say the exact same thing. We belong in the kitchen—my place is at the head of my crew.”

“I admire the devotion to your career,” Sebastian says, “but it strikes me that you could easily go mad.”

“Hey, that’s what you’re for, right?” That earns Jensen a thin, curled smile, but Sebastian’s not put off the topic for long.

“Do you work so much because you love it, or because you need to?”

Seconds tick by like audible beats in Jensen’s head. His eyes wander the room in search of the clock he knows isn’t there. “Look,” Jensen says, “it’s probably true that half of all chefs go mad and the other half fall all over themselves in order to stay ahead of the curve. I’d rather be crazy than lose my job.”

“I think there’s a part of you that needs the manic pace. You’re attracted to the work because it helps you escape from something else, and you crave that distraction.”

“I don’t”—Jensen’s mind casts about for an argument—“I mean it’s not an addiction. I don’t crave it like that, but it is my world. It’s the only thing I know how to do. And if I let go of that for _one_ second, I’m going to lose it to Miranda’s fucking games.” His voice, which had pitched steadily upwards throughout his rant, leaves a gaping silence in the office. “Sorry,” he says, “I guess I’m just getting sick of Miranda pulling the strings.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Sebastian says thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, it is her restaurant; they’re her strings to manipulate.”

Jensen grates his teeth, jaw clenched so tightly he can almost feel the headache he’s going to have later. “Yeah, but I wish she’d stop with her games and competitions.”

“You could always remove yourself from the situation.”

“Quit?” Jensen looks up. “You’re serious.”

“You’re a talented chef,” Sebastian tells him, nodding to the empty to-go container on his desk. “Any other restaurant would be lucky to have you.”

“Riverside was my kitchen from the get-go,” Jensen insists, throwing up a wall in his mind to prevent himself from considering any other options. “I can’t leave.”

“Then I suggest you get a hobby—”

“Chefs don’t have hobbies.”

“—or find something that will take your mind off the restaurant completely. Find something— _anything_ —that makes you happy.”

Jensen laughs but the sound carries little weight. “That’s a tall order.”

“A task you’re more than capable of handling then, I’m sure.”

*****

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

**RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“Jensen?” Genevieve‘s petite, curvy shadow falls across the sauté station. “There’s someone at the bar asking for you.”

“Asking for the chef?”

“Asking for you personally,” she says. “Nice guy, pretty hot except for the fact he’s wearing cowboy boots.”

Surprised, Jensen nearly fumbles the plate Dom hands over. “Oh, that’s Jared.”

Genevieve gives him a coy look over her shoulder. “Is he your—”

“Roommate,” Jensen’s quick to say. “He’s my roommate.” Adding the _blanc_ sauce to the salmon and grinding black pepper over the Strozzapreti, Jensen ignores Genevieve’s stare. He only looks at her when the plates are finished and he’s passing them into her waiting hands.

She smirks and swishes her long, dark ponytail, holding Jensen’s cuisine hostage. “So, are you coming out?”

“He’s a little busy here, doll,” Dom calls from over Jensen’s shoulder. “Tell his roommate that it might be a while.”

Not impressed with the pet name, Genevieve purses her lips while she thinks of a comeback. Jensen’s chuckling into his saucepans, glad for the lighter mood tonight. None of them notice Paul walking up to the counter, callous little eyes focused on Genevieve. 

“The goal is to serve the food while it’s hot,” he sneers. “Or did no one bother to teach you that?”

Genevieve—who Jensen finds he likes more and more every shift—twists her expression as if she’s found something disgusting on the bottom of her rubber-soled shoes. She barely spares Paul a glance before she’s smiling at Jensen and Dom again.

Jensen sighs. “Tell Julie to put whatever Jared wants on my tab, and tell him I’ll be out soon.”

“You have five minutes,” she says matter-of-factly. “After that, I’m telling him you accidently sliced your dick off and had it reattached upside down.”

Dom guffaws, loud enough to be heard over the stoves and fans, and Jensen can’t help laughing, knowing she’d do it. Looking at the three of them like he’d suddenly walked into an asylum, Paul huffs and turns away, denying Jensen the opportunity to snap at him for being away from his station during the rush.

Satisfied, Genevieve spins and waltzes through the swinging door.

After rushing through the remaining sauces, Jensen whisks his apron off and towels the sweat from his face. He knows he wouldn’t pass a mirror’s inspection—his face is probably red, hair a mess, and he’s burned his knuckles twice already—but he knows Jared won’t care. Dom steps in as saucier, earning them a nasty look from Paul’s corner-of-shame. Jensen decides that before he goes out and meets Jared, he needs to have a few words with his insufferable sous chef about belittling the floor staff for every little misstep. 

That’s Jensen’s job.

*****

Genevieve was right about the cowboy boots, but as a Texas boy, Jensen appreciates the sight of tooled leather and thick heels.

Jared’s leaning forward on his barstool, saying something to Julie that has her grinning from ear to ear. His legs are stretched out, long lines of dark denim with one heel cocked on his stool, and his black v-neck is tight around his shoulders. Jensen’s a little surprised to see him wearing a hunter green scarf loosely around his neck; he’s so used to seeing Jared in casual, lounge-around-the-house attire that the outfit’s a bit of a shock.

“Hey,” Jensen says, stepping up to the bar. Julie nods before turning away to her other customers. “You didn’t tell me you’d be stopping by tonight. I would have gotten you a table.”

Jared shakes his head, and Jensen sees there’s something off kilter in his eyes. “Oh, that’s okay. It was kind of a last-minute decision. If you’re busy…”

“No, it’s okay.” Jensen watches Julie loop back and drop a pint of beer onto the coaster in front of Jared. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving.” He taps the menu in front of him. “That’s part of the reason why I’m here.”

Jensen sets his elbows next to Jared’s on the canyon marble bar-top. “What’s the rest?” 

Fortifying himself with beer, Jared swallows and says, “I ran into Matt as I was leaving my last class.”

Jensen sours but doesn’t let his expression change. “Have you talked to him since you moved out?”

“He’s texted once or twice wanting to make sure I’d found somewhere to stay, but tonight he was telling me how sick he was of Fed and Rich. They’re still pulling the same crap, I guess.” Jared makes an unpleasant sound. “Matt actually asked if I would consider moving back so he wouldn’t have to deal with them on his own.”

Jensen would rather return to the kitchen and deal with Paul than face the possibility of Jared leaving.

“—so I told him that he needed to have a serious talk with Rich about breaking the lease if things don’t get better. Or he could just pack up and leave like I did, and stick Rich and Fed with the extra rent costs.”

“You told him no?” Jensen is genuinely surprised, and so relieved his knees almost buckle.

This time, Jared’s laugh is light and appetizing. “Dude, of course I told him no. You’re such an idiot,” he adds with a fetching smile. “You seriously think I’d give up an endless supply of gourmet leftovers, your enormous guestroom, priceless entertainment system, and the _dogs_? I think you’ve inhaled too many fumes tonight.”

“You’re probably right,” Jensen says, gaze circling the dining room that’s now filled to capacity. From the number of patrons holding menus, the kitchen’s about to be inundated.

Jared follows his stare. “Yeah, I guess you should head back before Dawson organizes a mutiny.”

“People would need to like him in order for that to happen,” Jensen says, leaning over to whisper the words right into Jared’s ear. “You said you were hungry, right?”

“Gonna cook something for me?”

“Nope”—Jensen holds him hostage with a grin—“I’m going to _create_ something for you.” He’s already imagining the way Jared’s mouth is going to water when he tastes Jensen’s medium rare filet with a crumbled Hook’s Blue cheese crust. “Any preferences?” he asks to be on the safe side.

Jared, visibly more relaxed than he was a few minutes ago, raises his beer in a toast. “Surprise me.”

*****

 **HOME**

The sun is just beginning to set west of the Ashley River by the time Jensen gets home early Wednesday evening. He has to tilt his rearview mirror to keep the sun’s reflection from burning out his eyes as he drives back to James Island.

Jensen has to remind himself to head in the direction of the house instead of continuing into downtown. Instinct is telling him that it’s dinner time; he belongs in the kitchen with his crew, prepping for a busy weeknight. But he’s not—he’s forced to the sidelines one night a week thanks to Miranda’s insistence that Paul be able to manage a day on his own.

Of course, Jensen hadn’t stayed away. He’d grabbed his morning coffee and driven to Riverside as the sun was coming up. He got there in time to take care of a seafood delivery and he’d stayed to sort out the paperwork on a new hire. Beneath the W-2, he’d found a mailer with Reid Canton’s name on the return address. Inside, along with a handwritten note, were glossy pages that laid out articles and recipes alongside beautiful culinary photography.

_Jensen—  
Don’t you think it’s time Charlestonians created their own publication on local Food Culture? I do. Take a look at these magazine pages and let me know what you think. I could really use input from someone with your background and level of success.  
—Reid _

Flipping through the mock-ups, Jensen could admit that Reid knew what he was doing. Even with such a small piece of the whole, Jensen was excited about the magazine’s possibilities, and he’d found himself outlining ideas and concerns on the back of his new dishwasher’s W-2 form. Quickly recopying the notes he’d made, Jensen hustled through the rest of his paperwork before he could be distracted again.

No one called Jensen on his presence at the restaurant that morning, but he wouldn’t care if they had—Paul might be running a shift, but Jensen runs the kitchen. If Paul has a successful night, it’ll come down to Jensen’s prep work and the efficiency of what he’s built, and nothing else.

After that, Jensen had driven south towards Beaufort to check in with a local farm that supplies a portion of Riverside’s produce. With the summer fast approaching, and the height of the tourist season with it, Jensen wanted to make sure that Riverside Grill had the first choice of organic stock. He’d spent the majority of the afternoon walking the fields and greenhouses, sweating through the humidity and making mental lists of all the amazing dishes he’ll be able to create with produce such as Tuscan kale, hydroponic Bibb lettuce, baby mustard greens, and golden beets.

As he pulls into his neighborhood, Jensen’s tired and more than a little dirty, uninspired by the thought of spending a night home alone. But that idea is dashed, happily, by the sight of Jared’s car in the driveway.

He finds his roommate in the kitchen, a warm bready smell wafting throughout the room. The combination of basil, buffalo mozzarella, and something sharper tickles Jensen’s nose. 

“Hey, what’s all this?”

Standing in front of the dual ovens, Jared smiles back. His jeans are worn thin at the knees and frayed at his feet, fabric soft through the entire length. The plaid shirt he’s wearing is a balanced mixture of blues, grays, and warm caramels, and his brown hair is brushed behind his ears.

“This is me cooking dinner for you, for once.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asks, stalking around the counter as if it’s his line. “You’ve cooked before.”

“Yeah, but not dinner,” Jared says. “Since this is your first night off, I figured I’d show you that I’m no one trick pony when it comes to cooking. I can do more than breakfast.”

The kitchen is overrun with ingredients. Piles of grated cheese set out like islands on the bamboo cutting board; shreds of basil and oregano here and there; prosciutto sharing space with spicy pepperoni; a myriad of colorful vegetables all chopped and sliced. Behind it all, two freshly made crusts stretched out on Josh’s pizza stones (that Jensen had noticed but had yet to use).

Jensen looks up. “I _know_ we didn’t have all this in the fridge.”

“I had a little spare time after class, so I went shopping.”

“You picked this out on your own?”

“I had help,” Jared admits with a soft smile. “I called Genevieve for tips, but she was downtown anyway. She came and shopped with me before her shift started.”

That’s another new development: Jared and Genevieve. Despite her initial wariness of Jared’s cowboy boots, the two have bonded over scarves (turns out Jared owns more than the one), the local music scene, and their classes at the College of Charleston. Instead of minding their sudden connection, it warms Jensen; Jared’s fitting more and more of himself into Jensen’s world, and that’s nothing to make a fuss over.

“She took me to Goat. Sheep. Cow. to find the best cheeses. I didn’t even know what half the stuff was. That place is amazing,” he says, and Jensen would have to agree—the quaint, European-style fromagerie is a gem, and a recent addition to Charleston’s food scene. “She took me to Bull Street Market for the rest.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” Jared smirks, puffing up his chest. Jensen’s eyes linger on the stretch of the fabric. “Now, go shower and change.”

Jensen pouts. “I guess no one wants me in their kitchen tonight.”

“Oh I want you, _chef_ ,” Jared teases, “but I can see the dirt on your arms from here, and there’s no way you’re getting near my _haute cuisine_ like that.”

Feeling the shiver of Jared’s stare all the way down his spine, Jensen fights the urge to turn around as he walks towards his bedroom. In the shower, he scrubs the sweat from his hair and the earth from his skin, body pinked and refreshed from the hot water. After a quick towel-dry, Jensen slides into jeans and rolls the sleeves of his navy button down up to his elbows.

“It’ll be ready in five,” Jared says when Jensen walks back into the kitchen. “Why don’t you open the wine?”

“Wine?” Jensen looks around. “Where is it?”

“Everything’s set up in the living room.”

‘Set up’ is an understatement. The couch has been pushed back from the low coffee table, which itself has been draped with one of Josh’s rarely-used tablecloths (Jensen’s brother really could be a Neanderthal at times) and set with napkins and wine glasses. In place of the overhead lights, Jared has lit a dozen candles, wax already dripping down the sides of the tapers, and their warm glow makes the room seem smaller and more intimate. Jared’s iPhone is docked to a set of speakers playing subtle songs Jensen doesn’t recognize.

It would be impossible to describe the scene as anything other than romantic.

Jensen swallows, wishing he’d taken a more thorough shower. The bottle of Malbec sitting on the side table isn’t much in the way of a distraction, but Jensen takes it, popping the cork smoothly with the wine key Jared had set out.

“Did you pick the wine?”

“Sort of,” Jared calls back from the kitchen where he’s bent over, peering into the oven. “Genevieve helped me pick it out. Did I get a good one?”

Jensen hums as he pours two glasses. “I think it’ll be perfect.”

Jared carries two large plates into the living room, each boasting a homemade crust topped with fragrant, melted cheese and a colorful array of toppings.

“So what’s the occasion?” Jensen asks after following Jared’s lead and taking a seat on the rug between the couch and the coffee table. Kneeling next to him, Jared hands Jensen one of the wine glasses.

“Nothing special,” Jared tells him without making eye-contact. “I thought it might take your mind off of not being at work. I know it’s rough, but maybe you can see it as a good thing: having more time to do what you want.”

Jared’s theory (the same as Sebastian’s, Jensen can’t help but notice) sounds great, but Jensen’s life revolves around Riverside. Even today, he’d spent the majority of his free time on related business. But that’s what Jensen signed up for when he agreed to Pierre’s offer—it’s what he wanted.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Jensen says, admiring the tempting spread in front of them, “but it’s great, seriously.” Reaching for his first slice—a large wedge topped with banana peppers, creamy whole milk mozzarella, thin slices of tomato, and basil—he stops when he realizes he has nowhere to put it. “You forgot the plates.”

“Nope”—Jared’s hand on his arm prevents Jensen from standing—“we don’t need them. Don’t tell me you’re afraid to get your fingers a little messy.”

Jensen has no comeback. He folds the slice and takes a huge bite, letting the cheese melt at the corner of his mouth, flavors sweeping over his tongue and satisfying his taste buds.

“I can’t remember the last time I had pizza,” he says. “I think I’m missing out. Where’d you learn to make stuff like this?”

Swallowing a bite of his own slice, loaded with Italian meats and soft cheese, Jared says, “I put in my time behind a pizza counter when I was in high school, and I was always playing with the toppings. I got to take a pizza home every night—which my parents were thrilled about because it cost so much to feed me—and I loved the weird combinations. I know it’s not gourmet…”

“I saw some of the labels on the cheeses you bought, and I beg to differ.”

Jared laughs and the light conversation continues as they work their way through the pizzas, trading slices back and forth between the platters. 

There’s half a pizza left on each plate by the time Jensen’s full. Jared’s finishing his fourth slice and Jensen is leaning back against the couch with his wine, content to watch and relax, answering the questions Jared throws his way.

“You know, when I first met you, I never would’ve pegged you for a chef.”

“No?”

Jared shakes his head, licking olive oil from his bottom lip. “I thought you were a writer or something. I mean, you were out during the day, spending time with the dogs, but it seemed like your mind was somewhere else entirely.”

“I was probably praying for someone to help me,” Jensen teases. “I couldn’t keep up with Paisley.” 

“Aww”—Jared presses his hand to his heart—“I was literally the answer to your prayers.”

After that slice, Jared finally admits to a full stomach. He combines the remaining slices on one platter but refuses to let Jensen carry anything into the kitchen. Sipping his wine, Jensen listens to Jared set everything on the counter and walk back into the living room, passing by the screen door to check on the dogs who were shooed outside before their impromptu picnic.

“Have you thought about what you’re gonna do after graduation?” Jensen asks, conscious of the fact that Jared has less than a month left in his senior year.

“I want to stay in Charleston,” Jared says right off the bat. “Texas was a great place to grow up, but I really like it here. I’m closer to the friends I’ve made here than I am with the people I went to high school with, and the beach beats anything we had back in San Antonio. And, I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about going for my MBA next year and filling in with some part-time work or internships.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

With a tipped grin, Jared shrugs. “And hey, if all that fails, you’ll hire me. Right?”

“In my kitchen?” Jensen pretends to consider the idea. “Well, let’s see. You make fantastic pancakes, and the pizza was superb, but I’ll be disappointed if your skills only apply to flat foods.” That starts Jared on a rolling laugh; he has to set his wine glass aside to keep from spilling it. “Maybe I could hire you for a brunch shift—”

“Which you don’t have,” Jared adds unhelpfully.

“Which I could create for you, Mr. Ungrateful,” Jensen points out. “You picked an excellent wine to pair with dinner tonight, and I’m sure you’re a hard worker.”

“I can provide letters of recommendation.”

“Hmm, still. I don’t know that you’d be the right fit for my kitchen.”

Jared gasps with theatric emphasis. “Why not?”

Jensen holds back for a moment, fighting the smile that naturally appears in Jared’s presence. “You’re just too nice,” he finally says. “And way too well-adjusted.”

“Well-adjusted?”

“It’s a well-known fact that kitchens attract the crazy types—the addicts, the unsociable, the totally unbalanced.”

Jared’s smile is warm enough to light a match on. “So, naturally you fit right in.”

“Hey!” Jensen laughs, but deep down he knows there’s a lot of truth stirred in with that statement. He began cooking with wholesome intentions—dreams of fine cuisine and world travel, creating and teaching—but everything spoiled when his parents died. Now his world is the merciless grind of a world-class kitchen: smoke and heat and enough noise to drown out any thought that doesn’t revolve around food. For nearly eight years, Jensen’s been grateful for the mayhem.

In the flickering candlelight, Jared’s expression softens. His eyes are golden—their color reminds Jensen of the caramelized sugar on top of crème brûlée—and his gaze has dropped to Jensen’s fingers.

Jensen brings one hand up between them, noticing for the first time how close they are, and opens his palm so Jared can see the dark imperfections. His hands are strong and capable, flying over the stove and sacrificing nothing to pain, but they’re also scarred and thick, as if Jensen’s skin grew an extra layer of protection. Flame and heat seared off any of the fine hairs long ago, and there are marks to immortalize countless kitchen mishaps.

Jared isn’t put off. He holds the back of Jensen’s hand and draws his finger over the scars, putting more pressure on the faintly purple burn marks across the heel of Jensen’s palm.

Not sure what to say, Jensen mutters, “The back looks worse,” and watches with a heavy stomach as Jared turns his hand over. Jensen curls his battered knuckles to hide his blunt fingernails, but Jared rolls his fingers out like dough, with a soft touch.

“Jared?”

“I—um,” Jared stutters and drops Jensen’s hand. “I hope you left room for dessert.”

Suddenly, Jensen’s staring at an empty space. Jared’s clattering through the kitchen, pulling out drawers and opening the refrigerator, but Jensen’s stuck in the quiet moment they shared not thirty seconds ago—the sensual and provocative way Jared touched him.

“I saw this at the market and couldn’t resist,” Jared says on his way back into the room. He’s carrying a plate and silverware this time: two forks on either side of a massive piece of tiramisu.

_‘That speech makes me want to get naked, cover myself in tiramisu…’_

Jared’s voice fills Jensen’s head, the memory pulled safe and sound from his fantasy vault. As if someone’s turned up the heat, Jensen’s cheeks begin to flush.

_’…and have gorgeous men lick it off.’_

If this is a hint—if Jared’s willing—then Jensen is ready, waiting for the smallest encouragement. Thinking about it is enough to give him a semi, easily hidden in the shadows cast by the low light.

“Are you gonna try it?”

Jensen looks up and sees Jared holding up a fork, a layered bite of sweet mascarpone and lady fingers waiting to be savored. Desserts have never meant all that much to Jensen—something he’ll never admit to Mark for fear of losing a limb—but they deserve reconsideration, especially when served by gorgeous male roommates after a seductive hand massage.

Jared is watching closely as Jensen leans forward and parts his lips for the offered bite, whipped sugar and shaved chocolate curls catching at the corner of his mouth. It’s easy to name the ingredients—lady fingers soaked in a mixture of espresso, dark rum, and Kahlua, chocolate and fluffy mascarpone cheese—but tiramisu is an example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Bold and delicate at the same time. As Jensen’s swallowing, Jared’s taking his first bite, eyes rolling back in pleasure. He’d like to see how that expression compares to the one Jared has mid-orgasm, something less sweet but just as delicious filling Jensen’s mouth.

Unconsciously, Jensen licks his lips.

“Oh my god,” Jared says with thick cheeks, “this is better than amazing.”

Jensen’s grateful Jared only bought one piece; he’s not sure he could survive an entire pan. It’s not the first time he’s gotten hard over food, but it could be the most memorable, depending on how the rest of the night goes. The combination of caffeine and alcohol in the dessert is affecting Jensen more than it should—his blood is coursing fast and slow in turns.

They share the tiramisu with a single fork, trading bites and long looks. Jensen lets Jared have the last taste so he can focus on the way Jared licks the semisweet chocolate from the prongs, his eyes fixated on Jared’s fluid mouth.

“Do I have something on my face?” Jared whispers. Jensen shakes his head but moves closer, imagining that if there were a dollop of sweetness on Jared’s lips, he could easily lean across the space and kiss it away. He’d move lower and share the sugar between their tongues until there was none left.

When he blinks, Jensen realizes he has unconsciously tilted forward. Jared’s eyes are depthless, pulling him in. As if Jared’s an exotic taste waiting to be sampled, Jensen can’t help himself. Jared takes a breath, lips open—

A sudden clatter turns their heads, Jared’s forehead nearly colliding painfully with Jensen’s. Paisley’s sharp bark shatters the moment completely.

“Shit.” Jared’s the first to gather his wits, jumping up. “I’ll let them in.” Jensen’s too shocked to argue, staring blankly at Jared’s back as he opens the sliding glass door. Paisley demands attention immediately, trotting over to her bowl and barking for food, her nub tail wiggling furiously. Scout follows his sister inside, moving slowly over towards his dish.

“Guess I should…” Jared trails off. “Sorry.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jensen’s at a loss. “I’ll get this stuff cleaned up.”

“I can get it—“

Jensen cuts him off. “You cooked. It’s the least I can do.”

They’d been so in tune all evening, but the chaos of the last two minutes has ruined that, and now Jensen can’t come up with anything to say that’s not awkward. He washes dishes while Jared takes care of the dogs and starts blowing out candles in the living room. Jensen scrambles for something to say in order to regain lost ground; his gut tells him that they were both more than willing. But maybe willingness isn’t the problem, Jensen thinks, gaze following Jared as he moves around the room and cuts back the ambiance until there’s nothing left of their intimate little world.

When the last flame is snuffed out, Jensen loses all hope of picking up where they left off.

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

The Friday night rush swamps them early—god damn downtown festivals—and Jensen’s barely keeping his crew out of the weeds as he works a line of tickets longer than his arm. Dom has brought a waitress to tears over a plate of foie gras while Jensen scores one breakdown when he kicks a sniffling, groveling apprentice out of the kitchen for trying to use his stove during the melee. The guy was lucky to leave with all ten fingers.

Paul attempts to approach Jensen before the initial wave of orders hits, but Jensen sends him retreating with a single look, the same thing he’d done yesterday whenever his sous chef tried to start a conversation. Having little patience on his best days, Jensen’s felt tapped out since Wednesday night after his dinner with Jared. He’s been teetering on the edge of total volatility for the last two days and the last thing he wants is to hear Paul recap his solo shift in nauseatingly self-flattering detail. He’d rather stick his hand in a food processor.

Jensen pulls another ticket from the printer. “Entrées!” he shouts, ready for the all-around symphony of groans. At least Jensen can take joy in the fact that Paul is struggling as much as anyone, cursing loudly enough to be heard across the chaos.

The bedlam is a blessing for Jensen’s rubbed-raw conscience; no spare energy left to think about Jared and the strain between them. They haven’t spoken much since their near-kiss in the living room, but they’re not exactly avoiding one another. It’s simply product of busy schedules and never being home at the same time, Jensen reassures himself. They’ll be fine—Wednesday night was a mishap, that’s all. Jensen deals with mishaps all the time.

Like now, when Genevieve drops a plate on the counter.

“He claims he ordered rare when I know for a fact he told me medium,” she complains, eyes pleading for Jensen to just fix the filet and not give her crap.

“Fire me another filet, rare, on the fly!” Jensen calls back and hears Saban pass along the order to one of the two guys working the grill.

“I don’t care if it’s cold and bleeding,” Genevieve adds with a generous helping of contempt.

“Gonna stand here and wait for it?” he asks.

She nods and crosses her arms. “God forbid it cooks one extra millisecond between here and the table.”

Returning his attention to the eight burners in front of him, Jensen forgets about Genevieve until she clears her throat. “Are you coming out tonight?”

He doesn’t look up from the blood orange sauce he’s making for the fish. “Huh?”

“Jared texted to see if I wanted to hang out after my shift,” she explains. “Guess I assumed you were coming, too.”

“I...” He doesn’t mean to hesitate, and Genevieve can easily interpret his stumble, but he struggles to connect the thought. “I can’t,” he finally says, taking two plates from Dom and adding the sauces. “I’ll be here for a while and then, the dogs…I’ve gotta drive home to let them out.”

Genevieve smacks her lips together, staring at Jensen while another waiter hurries in and takes the two entrees from the counter. Her gaze is unnervingly thorough.

“I think Jared meant that he wanted to meet up late. He knows you’d have to clean up, and—”

“Filet, rare, on the fly!” Saban’s voice booms and a plate comes rolling down the line, stopping at Dom’s station for the sides. Distracted from her inquisition, Genevieve pounces as soon as the meat is plated properly. She glides out of the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with another server going in the opposite direction.

Later, when Jensen takes five to down an entire bottle of water and check his phone, he finds no texts or missed calls from Jared. He tells himself there’s no reason to be disappointed, but it doesn’t stick, sliding off him like butter on a hot skillet.

His mood deteriorates from there, coming to a head when Paul corrals him in the prep room, arrogance written all over his face.

“—it felt amazing,” he’s gloating. “I was so connected with my customers and their tastes. My shift was flawless,” he adds, something Jensen knows for a fact isn’t true based on Libby’s rundown. “I just feel that this restaurant and I will evolve together, bringing Miranda’s vision into—”

“ _Evolve_ together?” Jensen cuts through Paul’s bullshit. “Can you hear how preposterous you sound?”

Paul cocks his hip against the prep table, its bamboo top filled with spring vegetables. “Ignore it all you want, Jensen, but you and Miranda are working in opposite directions. She and I share the same vision.” Jensen freezes. It’s the exact same thought he’d had when he began working with Pierre. “It’s only a matter of time before she and I are so far ahead, you won’t be able to see us.”

“Not being able to see you sounds pretty good right about now,” Jensen counters. “And since you’re always looking for more responsibility, now you’re responsible for dicing all of these vegetables”—he gestures across the prep table—“and getting them to Dom A.S.A.P.”

Putting Paul in his place only satisfies for a moment. Leaving the prep room, Jensen works harder and faster, demanding perfection from his crew as the rush of orders crests and, _finally_ , recedes. The mountain of clean-up is daunting but everyone claims their share, even Jensen. Paul disappears with a false apology, stating aloud that Miranda needed to see him after the shift. It’s just more bullshit, and the entire staff knows it.

“Oh my God, Jensen.” Genevieve’s hand is curled around the kitchen door, hair loose and wavy around her shoulders. A salmon colored scarf is bunched up around her neck and she’s changed her shoes. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“Why?” he asks. “Am I missing something?”

She huffs as if Jensen’s denser than a wedge of gouda. “I told Jared you were coming out and we’ve been waiting at the bar.”

“Jared’s here?” Genevieve rolls her eyes. Jensen dumps his polishing rag in the linen bin. “Can you wait another ten minutes?”

“Fine,” she says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “But you’re buying my next cosmo.”

Finished with the stainless steel around the saucier station, Jensen gladly abandons the rest; he’d done more than his usual share. In the next ten minutes he washes his face and runs wet fingers through his sweaty hair, strips out of his kitchen whites and houndstooth pants, and changes into jeans and a t-shirt. He sprays a stripe of cologne over his chest to cover the mix of cooking smells he’d waded through all night and pulls his leather jacket from his desk chair.

Dom wolf-whistles as Jensen passes through the kitchen, and he winks before slipping out. Jensen’s afraid no one will be waiting for him; maybe Jared got impatient or decided to leave once Genevieve told him Jensen was coming.

But across the dining room, Jensen sees Genevieve and Jared sitting at the end of the bar, conversation turned away from the rest of the late-night crowd. In deference to what must be a cooler night, Jared’s wearing a soft brown sweater—Jensen sees a green and brown plaid shirt peeking out at the bottom—and a solid camel colored scarf. Jensen doesn’t need to look closer to know that Jared’s sporting jeans and his favorite pair of boots.

He lingers in the soft shadows curtaining the back of the dining room, reads the relaxed lines of Jared’s body and compares them to the tense stances and cloudy expressions he’d seen yesterday and this morning. If giving Jared his space is what’s needed to preserve that comfortable posture, Jensen doesn’t mind walking away and letting Jared and Genevieve have their night out.

Just as he’s forming the impetus to turn around, Jared beats him to it. He zeroes in on Jensen through the dim light, expression undecipherable for a second before he’s grinning from cheek to cheek, beckoning Jensen with the tilt of his head.

And Jensen knows he couldn’t stay away even if Jared needed him to.

*****

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

**SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES**

“And as far as Jared goes,” Sebastian inquires, “you’re still getting along as roommates?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” he generalizes. “He makes sure I get out of the house now and then, mostly to distract me from worrying about the restaurant.”

“Does it work?”

“Sort of. It keeps me from thinking about it for a while.” _But things are usually worse when I go back_. “I keep telling him he doesn’t have to, but he’s too good of a guy to let me wallow in my own misery.”

“I wonder if you realize,” Sebastian says, “that the way you talk about Jared is different from the way you talk about anyone else in your life, professional or otherwise.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

Sebastian folds his hands over his notebook. “I think you know that it does. Your relationship with Jared goes beyond friendship, doesn’t it?”

This time, Jensen stares down at his hands. He’s not sure how to answer. The situation simmering between Jensen and Jared is complicated. For so many reasons.

Friday night had been the diversion from work he’d urgently needed. Genevieve led Jared and Jensen uptown to Fuel, a Caribbean-influenced cantina and bar that kept the original architecture of the classic gas station that used to occupy the corner of Rutledge and Coming Streets. Under strings of colored glass lights, they shared a high table on the open patio and sipped dark rum drinks until last call, warmed by the strategically placed outdoor heaters.

With the rum’s effects spreading throughout his body, Jensen relaxed until the tension of the last few days was the furthest thing from his mind. He caught up with friends from other kitchens who he hadn’t seen in months, traded gossip with line cooks and servers who introduced themselves by restaurant first and names second. Genevieve split her time between their table and a group of her girlfriends from school, jokingly reassuring Jensen and Jared that she’d already warned her friends that flirting with them would be useless.

Jared caught Jensen’s eye mid-laugh, cheekbones pink with the same flush Jensen was trying to blame on the alcohol. They had the table to themselves—Genevieve’s ringing laugh could be heard across the small patio—alone in a group of people who were all focused on something different. No one was looking at them; it was the perfect time to shift towards one another and erase the awkwardness that had plagued them since Wednesday night.

They didn’t.

Then on Sunday, Jared cashed in his rain check and insisted they take the dogs to the beach. The trip went as expected, with Jared and Jensen chasing after Paisley’s constant attempts to fetch driftwood, other people’s Frisbees and tennis balls, and in one harrowing instance, a transparent sack of what they thought was plastic, which turned out to be a dead jellyfish. Scout behaved, trotting happily after his sister through the sand with a palmetto husk he refused to let go of.

Back at the house, Jensen helped Jared wrangle the squirming dogs under the back hose to wash off the sand and saltwater. The combination of high-pressure water, heat, and Paisley’s shaking had been a recipe for soaked t-shirts and dripping hair, and Jensen found himself sucked into a water fight with Jared, the dogs barking happily in between. And there had come a moment in the midst of the chaos where Jensen found himself looking down into Jared’s face, sunlight diffused through their eyelashes and catching the water drops raining around them. He could have dipped forward then, touched cool lips, and drank the water from their inevitable softness. 

He hadn’t.

The worst—or maybe the best; Jensen’s having a hard time sorting it into the right category—came on Sunday night. While Jared showered, Jensen focused on dinner, sautéing leeks and dicing tomatoes they’d picked up from the farmer’s market on the way home from the beach. He heard the water stop running in the middle of adding garlic (less than he normally would) and a romano cheese sauce to the browned strips of pork.

The sundried tomato pasta was cooling in the sink, perfectly al dente, when Jared walked into the kitchen.

“I thought you were gonna miss din—” He stopped mid-jab, tongue frozen as he read the crimson letters on Jared’s heather gray t-shirt.

D.A.C.A. The _Dallas Academy of Culinary Arts._

“Where’d you get that?”

Jared tracked Jensen’s stare down to the print that ran across his chest. “Oh crap, this is yours. I grabbed a pile of shirts from the laundry room that I thought were mine, and I didn’t check. I can change.” Jared began lifting the shirt from the bottom, revealing the hip-clinging waistband of his jeans.

“Hey,” Jensen said before he could stop himself, “you don’t have to. It’s fine.” Jared paused with the t-shirt above his navel, a slice of skin sandwiched between cotton and denim, still moist from the hot water. Water stains ringed the collar where Jared’s wet hair swung across the material. “Keep it on.”

Saying that brought Jared’s eyes back up to Jensen’s, a flare of something coursing through his pupils before it was lost. Jensen entertained the idea that Jared wearing his shirt was a calculated move, and that Jared would come around the island and force Jensen back against the counter, decisively ending the standoff with his mouth.

Obviously Jared hadn’t, or Jensen wouldn’t be sitting here with Sebastian, conflicted about the answer to a simple question. What the hell is Jared to him?

“I don’t know,” is what Jensen finally admits. “But I don’t want to ruin what we’ve got by trying to figure it out before I’m ready.”

“What defines ‘ready’?”

Jensen rolls his eyes; he’d left the door wide open for that. “Maybe when I’m not dealing with so much shit—sorry—at the restaurant. Maybe I’ll be ready when I have my kitchen back.”

Pausing in his note-taking, Sebastian asks, “Do you still consider that a possibility?”

“What?” Jensen sputters. “Of course it is. That’s what I’ve been working towards for months!”

“With little to no improvement in the situation.” Sebastian sighs when Jensen tosses an accusing glance in his direction. “You’ve won a handful of battles, that’s true, but I don’t think this is a war you’re likely to win.”

Jensen bristles. “You don’t know that,” he says in a flat tone. “Who the hell would run that kitchen if I wasn’t there?” On his fingers, Jensen counts, “Dom’s never wanted the responsibility, no one wants to work for Mark ‘cause he’s a scary bastard, Libby would drown the place in debt buying up Bluefin tuna, and Saban isn’t the type. And despite what everyone seems to think, there’s a finite number of quality chefs in this city; the rest will never have what it takes.”

“I was under the impression that Ms. Carlton-Jennings had already made her selection.”

“Paul?” Jensen folds over laughing. “You’re kidding, right? Paul is so wrong for that kitchen.”

With a smile meant to placate, Sebastian points out the flaws in Jensen’s logic. “I think you know that it’s not a matter of him being the right chef for the restaurant.”

And maybe Jensen does, but it’s not a thought he likes to have hanging around. “Miranda’s just playing her games,” he says, putting enough conviction behind it so he believes it too. “She’ll get sick of it.”

“Might I suggest a backup plan if that doesn’t turn out to be the case?”

“Feel free,” Jensen tells him. Sebastian can talk all he wants; Jensen’s a well-greased skillet and other people’s suggestions have a tendency not to stick. With steel in his voice, he adds, “But Riverside has always been my kitchen, and that’s never going to change.”

*****

 **HOME**

“We should go out tonight.”

Jared ambushes Jensen with the suggestion as soon as he gets back from walking the dogs around the neighborhood. However, as he is barred from his own kitchen for the night, Jensen’s loathe to impose on anyone else’s.

“I have plenty here to make a decent meal.”

“Nope.” Jared shakes his head, leaning against the back of the sofa where Jensen’s working, laptop warm on his thighs. “Tonight’s your night off, so we’re going out where someone else will cook for us, and we’ll watch sports like two regular guys.”

Jensen scoffs.

“Fine,” Jared says, “I’ll pay for dinner _and_ drinks if you name one sport that’s having a season right now.”

“Golf!” Jensen exclaims, grateful that he needed to scroll past a few of the sports channels on his way up to the cooking block.

“Golf is not a _sport_ -sport,” Jared rules. “That doesn’t count.”

“Whatever, I watch real sports.”

Jared laughs. “Locker room porn doesn’t count either.” When Jensen snaps his eyes in his direction, Jared shrugs. “I’ve seen your DVD collection. Nice variation, by the way.”

“Dude, I know we’re close, but we’re not ‘sharing porn’ close.”

Jared cracks up, laughing as he winds around the dogs who are sprawled out on the hardwood floor while their human roommates bicker. He disappears down the hall and Jensen is almost ready to believe he’s off the hook when Jared calls back, “Get your ass up and dressed, Jensen!”

“I am—” he begins to say before looking down at his shirt and realizing that, no, he never changed out of windpants or the nearly faded Art Institute tee he’d been wearing since his post-lunch shower. “Fine,” he concedes, knowing Jared can hear him based on the whoop that follows, “but I get to pick where we go.”

“Too late,” Jared shouts, and Jensen watches Scout turn towards the voice. “I know the perfect place.”

*****

 **GOLDIE’S BAR  
FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA**

It’s not perfect, but Jensen can’t argue with Jared’s choice.

The retro gulf-fisherman-slash-Jimmy-Buffet décor inside Goldie’s doesn’t put Jensen off his appetite (he had sampled palate-revolutionizing cuisine from shadier establishments). Jared walks straight up to the bar with comfortable familiarity, ignoring the stack of finger-smudge menus piled next to a bin of paper napkin-wrapped silverware bundles.

“Two of the mahi-mahi tacos,” Jared begins listing off to the bartender, an older man with long hair and a longer beard with more gray in them than gold. “Two sirloin, two honey shrimp, and two of the tilapia. Throw ‘em all on a platter and we’ll sort it out.”

“Drinks?” Goldie—Jensen presumes—asks gruffly.

“Coronas,” Jared says, cutting Jensen out of the order entirely. He’s not complaining—the mix of spices and seasonings drifting into the bar from the kitchen in back makes his senses come alive.

“I’ve come in here a few times since you hired me,” Jared explains after they choose a wide booth made of varnished wood. “Drove by it on my way to Folly Beach and I figured, ‘why not?’ Fish tacos sounded pretty damn good.”

“My cooking’s not good enough for you?” Jensen asks, lip cocked against the rim of his Corona.

“You expect me to hold out ‘til ten or eleven every night? My body has needs, man.”

They drink at a moderate, matched pace, Jensen listening as Jared strings together comments about the baseball game—another sport that’s apparently in season—on the bar’s mural-sized flatscreen. Jensen licks a hint of lime from the corner of his lips, smug in victory when Jared stutters over a coaching analysis Jensen couldn’t care less about.

Goldie delivers two more Coronas along with their platter of tacos. Jared insists Jensen try one of each, dividing food between their plates. “Trust me, you’ll love ‘em.” 

There’s little doubt about that; Jensen’s awash in bright colors and the promise of full flavor. Fat red peppers, decorated with dark stripes from the grill, pop out between searing strips of sirloin tucked into a soft, corn tortilla. Sweet pieces of fish, liberally dusted with chili lime seasoning tucked between slices of avocado and fresh chopped slaw. Glancing up to see how many tacos Jared has devoured while he was busy staring, he’s surprised to see Jared’s plate untouched.

Jared is looking at Jensen’s plate, mouth tilted down and his dimples hidden, and Jensen understands the problem.

“If you don’t like it—”

“Quiet,” Jensen laughs. “I’m just deciding where to start.”

The tacos deliver on promised flavor, each bite a spicy explosion for Jensen to wrap his tongue around. Jared’s eating with gusto now, moaning with his mouth full, and Jensen spares half a thought to be jealous of the way Jared’s swooning over someone else’s cooking. But he totally gets it.

“Oh my god”—it’s Jensen’s turn to swoon—“the mahi-mahi?”

Jared laughs, muffled thanks to his mouthful. “Right? I think he soaks it in Patron or something.”

Jensen wonders if Libby has ever thought to marinate her fish in tequila. Then again, bottles of liquor never last long in high-pressure kitchens.

He’s savoring one of his last bites when Jared asks, “So why don’t you have your own restaurant?” 

Swallowing and chewing gives him time to form an answer. “I thought Riverside was going to be my restaurant,” he says, grabbing his Corona and taking a long sip to counter the tightness in his throat. “Guess I was wrong.”

“You didn’t foresee anything like this happening,” Jared tells him, holding up two fingers when Goldie passes by their table. “Miranda taking over, hiring Paul.”

“Forcing me out.”

Jared sets his empty bottle on the table. “Is that really what you think they’re doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jensen swallows what’s left of his beer and sets the empty next to Jared’s. He’s had a little time to think since his last session with Sebastian and it _is_ obvious. Miranda’s picked her horse (more like a horse’s ass) and Jensen’s not even in the race.

Jared thanks Goldie when he drops off their next round, clearing plates and bottles from the tabletop. To Jensen, he says, “Maybe Riverside’s the wrong place for you.”

Jensen’s tempted to ask if he and Sebastian have been comparing notes. When he scoffs, Jared shakes his head. “Seriously, you’re too good for that restaurant.”

“ _That_ restaurant has my menu,” Jensen argues, feeling his face flush. “I poured every inch of myself into building that kitchen. It was supposed to be my future. Why does everyone think that’ll be so easy for me to give up?”

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” Jared says, chasing the statement with beer, “but I think you deserve something better.”

Jensen has no argument against that. “I’ve never done it on my own.”

“Sounds to me like you could if you wanted to. You wouldn’t have to put up with someone like Miranda cutting you off at every turn. Riverside is a great place,” Jared adds, earnest and sharp despite the alcohol they’ve already consumed, “but people go there for your food and your reputation, because you’re one of the best chefs in the city. Don’t you think they’d follow you?”

The faith Jared has in him is astounding; it may add up to more than Jensen has in himself. “I need to see it through.”

“Says who?” Jensen can see that Jared’s eyes are slow to focus, and realizes they’ve put away a significant number of beers over the course of dinner. “It’s not a test to see how much you can put up with. If it were, congratulations. You’ve already won the gold medal”—Jared heaps on the sarcasm—“so get out of there already.”

“You really think I should?”

Their eyes meet; neither man flinches. The intensity in Jared’s gaze holds Jensen in place, and the taco bar virtually disappears around them. Television muted, conversations turned down to a low buzz, lights dimmed until all Jensen sees is Jared staring back. There’s a promise to be read in Jared’s expression, but Jensen ignores it in favor of the lust overriding his senses.

Jared breaks the cover of silence first, shuffling his eyes away from Jensen and reaching for the bottle in front of him.

“Yeah, but…” Jared wavers. “I know it doesn’t mean a lot, coming from me.”

No matter what Jared thinks of his own opinion, Jensen gives him more weight than anyone else in his life, save Josh.

“Trust me,” Jensen says, “it does.”

And Jared may be blushing, Jensen can’t tell thanks to the beer, but he knows his own face feels warmer. Abandoning the heavier topics, he asks Jared about classes and the countdown to graduation. It’s a successful diversion; Jared leaps to fill him in on final projects and commencement plans (which seem to include Jensen, a fact that makes him smile behind the rim of his Corona).

Jensen studies Jared while he’s talking, the thin film of a beer buzz making everything soft around the edges, and resolves to replace every fantasy version of Jared he has—except for the vivid reel involving nudity and tiramisu—with the one sitting across the table. Jared is relaxed, forehead smooth and free of tension-wrinkles, tongue caught between his teeth and lower lip as he finds amusement in something he says. The light in the bar catches the low chestnut hues in his hair where it’s flipped casually against his shirt collar, and Jensen decides that he needs to cut himself off if he’s starting to name the tones in Jared’s hair.

He’s gay, not a romance novelist.

After Jared finishes another beer, Jensen can’t take it anymore. Jared hasn’t said anything, but the looks he’s been tossing across the table are as subtle as Jensen’s pastry chef wielding a butcher’s knife. He’d blame it on the alcohol if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve been building up to something, and Jensen’s patience is almost non-existent when he drinks.

“You ready to get out of here?” Jensen’s tongue slips out across his bottom lip. His smile turns smug when he sees Jared track the gesture and swallow.

“Yeah,” Jared says, slightly breathless. “You good to drive?”

He nods. “We’re five minutes from home.” Faulty logic when it comes to drinking and driving, but Jensen’s in much better shape than Jared, and lust is having a profoundly sobering effect. They each make a quick stop in the restroom before waving to Goldie—with promises to come back—and leaving.

The next five minutes are some of the longest Jensen’s had to sit through. He concentrates on the road as much as he needs to, but there’s six and a half feet of distraction in the passenger seat, contorting and stretching his long limbs.

“Why can’t you drive a normal car?”

Jensen takes offense on the Prius’ behalf. “There’s nothing abnormal about my car.”

“It’s a clown car.” Jared tucks his back against the door, angled so that his crotch is right there in Jensen’s periphery.

“Dude, I’ve been in trucks with less leg room than this.” 

Jared seems to consider the argument, head rolling back against the window. Jensen makes it through the one traffic light between Goldie’s Bar and their neighborhood, and Jensen thinks he’s in the clear.

Until Jared opens his mouth and says, “At least with this car, I know you’re not trying to compensate for anything.” Then, with a leer Jensen can hear: “Not that I had _any_ doubts.”

Jensen’s foot is like lead on the accelerator (and he almost misses the roar of a non-eco-friendly engine) the rest of the way home.

*****

 **HOME**

The air is thick with notes of white jasmine and tea olive. Jensen fills his lungs with the humid, fragrant air as he steps onto the porch with Jared flush against his back. Personal space is a forgotten luxury as they walk in and make their way towards the kitchen where they’re immediately corralled by Paisley and Scout demanding to be let outside.

“We should put—”

“—let them out in the yard,” Jared finishes the thought as they both reach for the back door at the same time, fingers meeting on the handle. The dogs rush out, barks fading as they romp away from the house, leaving Jared and Jensen free to focus on each other.

The touch of Jared’s hand against his is like hitting the ignition; Jensen’s core heats and roars, breath fighting to get out of his lungs as he stares Jared down. Without breaking the gaze, Jared nods, and the green light’s on in Jensen’s mind.

Momentum sends them crashing into the living room wall. Jared paws and pushes at Jensen’s shoulders, trying to force him away for a few seconds before moaning, physical protest disintegrating. Their first kiss if off-target, but Jared hooks Jensen’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs until they’re exhaling into the same space.

Jared splits his knees, slides his ass down the drywall, and grinds into Jensen. He can feel the thick promise of Jared’s cock behind his jeans, slow to fill with the way his blood’s thick as molasses from the alcohol. If Jensen weren’t so keyed up, he’d be tempted to let Jared get hard in his mouth; taste the flavor and musk as his cock—which is going to be _impressively_ long—grows and expands across his taste buds. He wants to suck Jared off so damn bad (he’s a chef, of course he’s orally fixated) but the air’s closing in around them, almost too heavy to think.

What little gentleness their lips might have shared disappears quickly, Jensen roughing up Jared’s mouth. Their shadows melt together on the wall as Jared refuses to let Jensen put any space between them, his shoulder blades chiseling into the paint.

Jared whips his head back, sucking in the deep breath Jensen wasn’t letting him have. He bares his throat and Jensen moves in, fitting his body into the spaces and angles Jared has left open for him.

“It’s so hard…”

Jensen’s lips curl against Jared’s neck. “Tell me about it.” 

“No, living with you. Seeing you and not having you.”

Jensen stops. It’s as if he’s listening to Jared speak a thought he's had so many times. “All you had to do was ask.”

Jared drops his chin, bringing the anxiety in his eyes to light. He cranes his neck away from Jensen’s teeth, strokes down Jensen’s spine. “I thought about it, but I didn’t want to mess things up,” he says, beer-laced slur hitting Jensen on the cheek.

“You think this is a bad idea?”

Jared shakes his head. Jensen exhales and sags forward, swaying his hips to gauge whether or not Jared’s interest has waned. He’s glad to feel Jared’s pleasure swelling, girth he can dig into and grind against. 

If Jared’s got any other protests, he holds them behind his teeth, and Jensen makes certain he’s silenced with mouth-to-mouth pressure, tongue sweeping the words away. Jared moans beautifully, recklessly, and that’s when Jensen knows he’s pressed past the point of return.

And Jensen can’t help himself when Jared’s just offering it like this, legs angled against the outside of Jensen’s thighs, undulating. If Jared weren’t so willing, the alcohol might be enough to keep Jensen from tearing into Jared’s jeans, knuckles scraping over the zipper when he reaches in and weighs the heft of Jared’s cock in his palm, knees buckling at what he finds.

“Fuck, Jen…”

Jensen takes that as an offer. “I can’t wait,” he says, already thrusting when Jared shoves his hand into Jensen’s pants. “Otherwise I’d want you spread-eagled on my bed, begging me to get between your legs and—”

Jared keens, and Jensen allows himself a satisfied smirk before Jared’s mouth is crushing his, the span of his palm working their cocks with the same stroke-and-twists. Belts and zippers jangle as their pants fall to their knees leaving warm thighs bare to increase the friction. With the reins firmly in Jared’s hands, Jensen redirects his energy into his mouth, rolling his tongue behind Jared’s teeth, pressing further every time he hears a moan. Soon enough, half of those moans are coming from him as Jared squeezes and jerks, digging the fingers of his other hand around the curve of Jensen’s hip.

Jensen’s not ready to come—feels like he could fuck Jared’s hand for hours and not get enough of the knuckles and ridges and spaces between his fingers—but Jared makes the decision for him, dropping his own cock and fondling Jensen’s, slipping his fingers down to work Jensen’s balls at the same time. Jensen ruts against Jared’s dick, tries to work his hand in to help, but he shudders and folds before. His semen wets Jared’s fingers and drips in sticky trails across his upper thigh.

With a whine that goes straight past Jensen’s tongue, Jared bucks and adds to the mess between them, panting as soon as Jensen lets go of his mouth.

“I feel too good to move,” Jensen says a few minutes later. The laugh that rolls through Jared’s belly warms him, but then Jensen’s being pushed back, shifted to the side. “Huh?”

“The dogs,” Jared says. “I can hear Paisley scratching at the door.”

“I’ll feed them,” Jensen says, hiding his grin against Jared’s collarbone before he moves away. Obviously they can’t stay propped up against the wall all night—Jensen’s knees are already quaking—so it’s time to move somewhere more comfortable, see what other explorations they can accomplish before the sun comes up. “Can you lock up the front?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The dogs dance around Jensen’s feet when he lets them in, but they’re quickly enticed away by the food in their bowls. Jensen kills the kitchen lights while he listens to Jared lock the front door and check the thermostat.

They meet in the hallway to the bedrooms.

“So,” Jensen says, rocking back on his heels, “my bed’s plenty big enough—”

Jared cuts him off, eyeing the guestroom door. “I’ve got an early class and I’m kinda…” he sighs. “Too many beers, I guess.”

That throws Jensen, especially since he can still feel Jared’s come cooling on his stomach. “You don’t want to stay with me?”

“Jensen, we live in the same house.” He smiles while he says it. “It’s not like I’m leaving. I’m just really, really tired, and if we sleep together…”

“I get it,” Jensen lies. He’s no stranger to how the blow off works. He didn’t write the book but he’s read most of the chapters, and it wouldn’t matter if Jared lived across the hall or across town—he’s giving Jensen the slip. “You gonna be around for breakfast?”

“Depends on what time you get up,” Jared says, and his expression shifts to something a little more honest. “I—thanks though. For tonight. For coming out, I mean, and for—”

Jensen’s allergic to awkwardness. “You’re right, it’s late and we’re tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” Before Jared can prolong their discomfort, Jensen shoulders past and shuts himself in the master bedroom, purposefully walking into the bathroom so he can’t hear whether or not Jared lingers in the hallway.

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“Jensen.” Miranda’s voice is cool, her painted teal manicure tap-tapping on Jensen’s desk. “This is becoming a problem.”

“You sitting in my chair? You’re right, that’s a problem.” Jensen says lightly. Miranda’s mouth twitches, but there’s nowhere he likes seeing Miranda less than in his office.

“Your attitude. With Paul,” she needlessly clarifies. Jensen’s been less-tolerant of his sous chef than normal this week. “It’s affecting business.”

“That’s a lie—I check the receipts every night. You’re making plenty of money, Miranda.”

To Miranda’s credit, she doesn’t squirm. “But you do have a problem with Paul.”

“Of course I do, I’ve been telling you that since you hired him. He berates the floor staff for the tiniest mistakes—”

“I’ve seen you get angry, too.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, “when someone messes up badly enough to cost us money, not for modifications or pairing mistakes. And Paul’s had more than one plate sent back when he decides to make something differently than the menu describes it.”

“As if you don’t add your own signature touches,” Miranda points out, and Jensen wants to throw himself on one of Libby’s filet knives.

“They’re my recipes, and I’m not adding anything that the menu doesn’t cover, or that the servers won’t know was on it if a customer asks. What happens if Paul adds something that a customer is allergic too?”

“That hasn’t happened.”

“But it could,” Jensen tells her. “So yeah, I have a problem with him.”

Miranda spins the chair in a half circle, pale stalks in designer heels peeking out from the side of the desk. “It goes beyond that, though. Your issues with Paul are personal.”

Jensen’s jaw twitches. He’s so damn sick of people telling him what his issues are; he tolerates it from Jared, and he has to stomach Sebastian’s insights, but he refuses to swallow Miranda’s stale perceptions. Especially when it comes to Paul. There aren’t enough bricks in the world for the mental wall Jensen would need to block out the memory of Paul groping him in the walk-in, the way his words had slithered across Jensen’s lips until he wanted to spit out the bitter taste.

Miranda doesn’t seem to mind Jensen’s silence, letting him stew and adding more salt.

“I’m not going to fire him, Jensen, so you either need to deal with him, or you can pack up your knives and leave my kitchen.” Miranda doesn’t blink when Jensen jerks forward, a growl on his lips. “And you’d be taking your crew with you.”

That needles him. “What?”

“I need a staff that’s loyal to me, not you, and definitely not to my ex-husband.” She uncrosses her legs, stakes her pointed elbows on Jensen’s desk. “He’s not coming back, if that’s what you’re waiting for. Pierre’s gone, and he didn’t care enough about this restaurant to fight for it in the divorce,” she says, tone no more expressive than when she’s discussing liquor orders. 

“As long as he got to keep his South American whore, he didn’t care what he signed away. Maybe Pierre knew this place was your dream, but it didn’t matter—he wasn’t going to fight for it.” Miranda’s eyes begin to smolder. “But I did. I _wanted_ Riverside and I made sure I got it. I had a dream too, Jensen, only I wasn’t going to stand idly by while it was stolen.”

A chill slices through him. “I’m not letting you poach my menu and my kitchen,” he says, resolute. “I’ll fight for them.”

“Just don’t fight me. Or Paul. I’m not blind, Jensen. You’re a very talented chef, and I’d hate to have to let you go. But I own this restaurant and you’re in no position to take it.” Miranda stands. “Either learn to work with Paul or work somewhere else.”

“Is that all?” he asks, crossing his arms so that he won’t strangle her with a towel. “I have a full house to prep for.”

“By all means,” she says, waving Jensen out of his own office. Not that he wants to stay—he’d gag on her eau du toilette. “Oh, and let Paul run the shift meeting today.”

Jensen walks out.

*****

When the Saturday night rush hits, Jensen has already settled into his rhythm. Pulling tickets, calling orders, and trusting in (the majority of) the crew behind him. Libby and Saban keep the back half of the kitchen on point while Dom oils the front of the line. And with nothing overly-taxing to concentrate on, Jensen’s mind drifts.

Jared remains the bright point in Jensen’s life; the pilot light which keeps him functioning from day to day. And that’s the crux behind why Jensen hasn’t brought up their against-the-wall, grinding slash make-out session. He can’t stand the thought that if he pushes too hard it won’t happen again.

And Jensen wants more; having Jared once was like taking the first bite of an amazing meal and then watching someone remove your plate. Jared hasn’t said he regrets what happened, but he hasn’t mentioned the incident at all. Instead, Jensen and Jared coexist the way they have been since Jared moved in: individual orbits that overlap once or twice a day, shared looks that linger until one of them passes out of view.

After the shift is over, Dom sidles up to the bar alongside Jensen. Julie pops a couple of tops and sets two beers in front of them, sweeping away with Jensen’s empty.

Dom glances around, making sure they have some privacy. “What’d Miranda say to you?”

“How d’you know she said anything?” The look Dom throws back means Jensen won’t be bluffing his way out. “Apparently I haven’t been showing enough respect for Paul’s culinary skills.”

Dom scoffs. “Maybe if he had any.”

“She threatened to fire me if I don’t stop trying to burn him out,” Jensen admits. “Me and my crew.”

He’s expecting derision, but Dom drowns his reaction with a hefty swallow before saying, “If she’s willing to dump one of the best crews in the city to keep one of Capriccio’s throwaways, then she and Dawson deserve each other. Without us, she’ll turn this place into an Olive Garden, albeit one with nicer plates.” 

Jensen smiles. What he’s got with Dom—with Saban and Libby and Mark (on his less sociopathic days) —can’t be quantified on a traditional social scale of friendship, but it’s full-bodied, robust and loyal.

“Maybe I should start handing out gold stars.”

Dom is forced to swallow before he spits beer all over the bar. “Oh shit, the indignity! It’ll be just like sixth grade home-ec up in here.”

One by one, some in pairs, the staff files out until it’s just Jensen and Dom at the bar, plus a handful from the cleanup crew in the kitchen. The lights are dim, beers ice-cold as Jensen pulls them from the bar fridge. There are nights Jensen craves the constant buzz of a bar packed wall-to-wall with well-dressed flesh, drinks lined up and ready. But not tonight—he’d rather fill one of Riverside’s expensive barstools and savor the quiet.

“You know,” Dom says after a while, “it’s not a bad idea. Trying to get along with Paul, I mean.”

The worst part is, Jensen’s beginning to figure that out. “I’m getting that.”

“We all know this place was yours from the get-go, and if Pierre hadn’t dropped outta the picture, we’d be running the best place in the city. But he’s not coming back. You know that, right?”

“Some partner he was,” Jensen mutters.

“And I don’t think Miranda’s ever gonna trust you,” Dom says, going 2-for-2. “You and Pierre were too close—you were like his goddamn ingénue or something. No matter how good of a chef you are, Miranda’s set against you. It has nothing to do with you, Jensen. Pierre really tried to fuck her over, and she’ll put a stop to any ambition you try to drive past her, no matter if it’s for the good of the restaurant or not.”

Jensen swallows the truth along with the rest of his beer. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

Lifting himself over the bar and dismounting on the other side, Dom pulls two more bottles. “You get drunk and we figure out the best way to deal with Dawson.”

“Oh my god.” Jensen’s upper body collapses; he thunks his head down on his crossed arms. “This is gonna suck.”

“Hey”—Dom presses cold glass against his arm—“just because you have to play nice, doesn’t mean the rest of us do. And I know Libby’s got a few new tortures hiding up her sleeve that would make Mark proud.”

*****

 **HOME**

“You should go on this show,” Jared remarks without looking up from his laptop.

Jensen rolls his head along the back of the couch. “On _Chopped_?”

“Why not?”

He responds in the form of a non-committal grunt, and Jared smirks at his screen. Jared has commandeered the armchair, notebooks balanced beside his elbow and the laptop on his thighs, while Jensen arranged his own paperwork around him on the couch. Jensen breaks Jared’s concentration every time he critiques a contestant’s choice of seasoning. Or sneers at a piece of undercooked meat. Or laughs outright when a course is poorly plated.

Well, if Jared really wanted to concentrate, he wouldn’t be sitting with Jensen in front of the television during a _Chopped_ marathon.

“I bet you’d win.”

“Duh,” Jensen laughs. “I’m amazing.”

“And clearly modesty’s not a problem.”

“No such thing as a modest chef.”

“No?”

Jensen yawns. Sundays make him lazy, especially after another one of Jared’s monster brunch spreads (and no, that’s not a euphemism for sex on the kitchen counter). “It’s one thing to cook well, but you’ve gotta make sure everyone else knows it, too. Just another part of being a good chef.”

Jared considers him from across the coffee table. “So you’re all a bunch of unstable, cocky, self-asserting, and borderline-alcoholic insomniacs who’ll stop at nothing to get ahead?”

“Hey, I sleep,” Jensen says, grinning. “Sometimes.”

Jared laughs. “I still think you should go on this show.”

“And when I win?” he asks, watching Jared set his laptop on the coffee table and plug it in with the cord snaking across the rug. “What should I do with the prize money?”

“Open your own restaurant.” 

Jensen wonders how much Jared’s been thinking about this. If it’s anything close to the amount of time Jensen’s spent thinking about Jared, well—“It takes more than ten grand to get a place going in this city.”

Jared pretends to be more interested in the appetizer basket Ted’s introducing than arguing with Jensen. The truth is that he has thought about his own restaurant—more like fantasized during tense moments when Paul reached across his chest or pressed against his back, too suggestive to be written off as incidental. It remains little more than a dream on the horizon.

“Weren’t you telling me about a couple interviews you have coming up?” he asks Jared during a commercial.

“Interview,” Jared says, “just the one. With finals coming up, I haven’t had the time to try for more.”

“What’s the job?”

Another sigh. “Bank teller.”

“You want to be a bank teller?” Skepticism lends Jensen’s voice an edge. “Seriously?”

“No, of course I don’t,” he says, frustration in his gestures. “But there’s not a lot out there for new graduates and I’ll have to go down to part time once I start classes for my MBA in the fall. Plus, it pays well and I’m gonna need the money when I move outta here.”

“Whoa, wait—” Jensen mutes _Chopped_ as the four competitors are frantically plating their appetizers. “You’re moving out?”

“Aren’t I?” Jared sounds as if he’s not sure it should be a question. He nudges at the power cord with his foot. “I didn’t know whether or not you’d be moving back downtown—”

“Josh won’t be state-side for at least another year,” Jensen says, leaning forward. “If you want to stay, you’re more than welcome to.”

“But I’m not paying rent.”

“You don’t need to. Josh’s firm is paying the mortgage while he’s in Hong Kong. And I would never ask you to pay rent since you still insist on taking care of the dogs and the property because, let’s face it, I’m pretty useless. Listen”—Jensen knows Jared’s getting ready to protest—“you don’t have to move out. I don’t want you to move out. As far as getting a job…maybe I could help you with that.”

“How?” The lines on Jared’s forehead betray his doubts. “I told you, I don’t want to work brunch.”

“Dude, no one wants to work brunch. Hiring you to run a brunch shift is like sending you into a living hell, complete with old lady zombies.” When Jared stops laughing, Jensen adds, “I can make a few calls.”

“I’m not a chef.”

“Don’t be dense. I’m saying that there are always opportunities, especially with the larger restaurant groups, for the business-minded. Accounting and marketing and acquisitions—stuff that really turns the crank for paper-pushers like you.” 

“God, acquisitions get me so hot,” Jared says, fanning himself. Jensen can’t help laughing, and the sound rouses Paisley who scampers in, four paws clicking. Jared stands, ready to swoop her up, but she jumps on the couch wriggling all over Jensen. And Jared’s there, perched on the edge as Jensen’s bowled backwards with a lapful of spaniel.

“Get him, girl,” Jared encourages, hands tickling down Jensen’s side, chest blocking the television.

Jensen can’t stop to catch his breath. He can’t remember the last time someone freaking tickled him, but that doesn’t stop his body from bucking in spasms against the cushions, trying to bend away from Jared’s hands and into them at the same time.

Just as suddenly as she’d appeared, Paisley yips and jumps down, leaving nothing between Jensen and Jared but warm air. Untangling their legs is complicated and Jensen’s boxed between Jared’s arms. Without Paisley, the situation transforms from silly to serious in seconds. Lips parted, heat building—this isn’t the first time they’ve been close since Wednesday night. Jensen’s been ticking them off like hash marks in his mind; Jared’s never gone further and Jensen has refused to push. But it’s hard (God, is it _ever_ ) to hold himself in check when he’s able to see right through Jared’s ‘buddy’ façade and empathize with the longing that lies beneath.

Right now, it’s on Jared to lean away and he does, levering himself off the couch in one move. Looking at the television, Jensen sees they’ve missed the majority of the entrée stage and Jared’s computer reflects the black screen of sleep mode.

“I guess I should…” Jared sighs, raking his fingers across his scalp. “My paper’s not gonna write itself.”

Jensen adds another hash mark.

*****

 **SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES**

“I’m trying to be nice to Dawson.”

“How’s that going?” There’s no need for Jensen to look over; he can _hear_ Sebastian’s smirk.

“It’s not,” he admits, mood as gray as the sky outside Sebastian’s windows. The weather has been threatening all day with low, ominous clouds being pulled down river by the wind. “I’m still in the planning stage,” he adds wryly.

“Was this a personal resolution or…”

“Miranda’s idea. Well, less of an idea and more of a directive. She thinks it’s impacting my performance.”

“Is it?”

Shaking his head, Jensen says, “Riverside’s doing as well as it can, I think. Profits are where they should be, though there’s a bit of a salary crunch in the kitchen, but that can be managed.”

Apparently it’s not what Sebastian wants to hear. His blue eyes narrow and he asks, “I meant on a personal level, Jensen. Is the tension between you and your sous chef preventing you from enjoying your work the way you would otherwise?”

Not for the first time, Jensen wonders if Sebastian had hypnotized him at some point during their sessions. He can’t help thinking Sebastian knows what happened between them: the visceral reason behind Jensen’s aversion to Paul.

“I see Paul and I start thinking about why he’s there—that Miranda’s just waiting for me to fuck up badly enough to warrant replacing me.”

“Has she threatened to fire you?”

He sighs. “More than once.”

Behind Sebastian, fat drops of rain splatter the glass and begin gravity’s race to the ground. “She’s put you in a terrible position, and if she were my client”—Jensen can see a hint of deviousness in his expression—“I’d have more than one stern lecture for her, but I can’t change the way she’s doing business.”

“Neither can I,” Jensen sulks. “But you can tell me how to deal with both of them.” He’s out of his depth when it comes to enduring Miranda and Paul’s constant attacks. If Sebastian can help him, Jensen’s at least willing to listen. “No more answering a question with a question, doc. I need something I can take with me.”

“I don’t think further confrontation is going to get you anywhere,” Sebastian says. “From what you’ve told me, they’re both the type to respond negatively.”

“I can’t believe I’m paying you for insights like that.”

“I’m quite brilliant, I’ll have you know,” Sebastian admonishes with a smile. “Just wait for it. But back to the issue at hand,” he says. “I think it’d be best for you to ignore them as much as you can. Don’t speak to either of them unless necessary, but don’t be closed-off if they approach you. You need to seem focused on other things, rather than petulant. It might seem like a retreat on your part, giving them more power over the way you carry yourself, but it’ll give you a chance to redirect your energy into what you actually love doing.”

“You know,” Jensen says, “that’s not too bad. I thought you were gonna tell me to sit ‘em down and ‘talk it out,’ and in that case I’d be taking back the chocolate torte Mark had me bring over for you.” They both look at the innocent plastic clam container sitting on the side table. Sebastian twitches, like he’s ready to jump if Jensen so much as lifts a finger towards it. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“Old friends,” Sebastian says.

“Oh, you’re not his therapist, too?”

“Some personalities are beyond my skill.”

That explains a lot, Jensen thinks, although it’s actually somewhat frightening to imagine his therapist and his pastry chef together.

“We still have a few minutes left,” Sebastian reminds him. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Like what?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Last week you mentioned that the anniversary of your parents’ death is approaching,” he says, gaze solid as Jensen begins to squirm beneath it. “How would you usually spend that?”

“With my brother.”

Sebastian _mmm-hmms_. “And since he’s not here?”

“It’s been eight years,” Jensen says, “I should be able to function without him.”

The wobble in Jensen’s voice must be obvious, because Sebastian looks up. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling?” Jensen sighs. “It’s better if I’m working, because then I won’t have to think about it, and I know you’re gonna say that I’m avoiding the issue, or whatever, but craving the distractions the kitchen provides is a hell of a lot better than sitting by myself, wishing Josh were around. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”

“Josh called me a few days ago,” he admits. “Wanted to make sure I’d be alright without him.” Remembering his conversation with Josh brings a heavy weight down to settle over his heart. “Which I am,” he says just in case Sebastian’s getting ready to pounce on another issue, “it’s easy to get by with the day-to-day stuff, but when something like this rolls around…I guess I just never thought we’d be spending this anniversary on opposite sides of the world.”

“I’m sure he feels the same way.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t do a whole lot to help.”

“With something like this,” Sebastian offers, “very little does. If you feel you need to work in order to get by, that’s fine, but don’t overlook your other options. You may not have your brother, but there’s no reason for you to be alone.”

“What other options?” Jensen asks, but Sebastian’s already looking at his watch and folding the cover over his notes.

“I believe that concludes our hour,” he says. “Tell Mark thank you for the torte, but remind him that it’ll take more than dessert to make up for what he did to my Audi.”

“Wait, what happened?”

Sebastian merely purses his lips, eyes smiling. “Trust me, Jensen. You do not want to know.”

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“You don’t have to be here, Jensen.” Dom’s suggestion doesn’t carry the weight of pity, but Jensen tenses regardless. “It’s not like we’re gonna have a full house, and we’re all set on prep.”

There’s no reprieve for the baby leeks on Jensen’s chopping board. “Tomorrow’s my night off, remember?”

“Sure, but you’ve never—”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Jensen.”

Despite his muscles telling him to stab something, he sets his knife on the board and shakes the ripple of tension out of his arms.

“You’ve just never worked—”

“You don’t have to remind me, man,” Jensen cuts him off. “Seriously, I’m okay. I’d rather be here.” Which is a lie, of course, but Jensen’s not sure he can be anywhere else.

“I’m gonna prep extra goat cheese soufflés for tomorrow.”

Before Dom opens his mouth to assure him that they have plenty, Jensen stalks off to the walk-in, hoping the cold, filtered air’s going to do something for the pounding behind his eyes.

Only, he’s not alone.

“Jensen.” Paul nods, pulls his hand back from the cartons of butter. His grin is chillier than the recycled air being pumped into the metal box. “Need something?”

 _Be nice_. Jensen frowns, remembering Sebastian’s advice. _Okay, be neutral._ “Goat cheese.”

“Prepping more soufflés? Good idea. I haven’t gotten the hang of making those yet.”

Paul sounds friendly but Jensen can’t raise a response. All he wants is kitchen furor; barring that, busy-work. He doesn’t want to face Paul and _pretend_.

“You know, we didn’t think you’d show up tonight.”

Jensen bristles. “No one owns a calendar in this place? Today’s Tuesday.”

“Miranda mentioned—”

Jensen’s voice has grown icicles. “Stay out of my business, Paul.”

Paul’s chuckle hits Jensen as a cloud of condensed breath. “And here I thought we were finally getting along,” he says. “This place is my business, too, Jensen. If you’re not up to the pressure—”

“Where the hell do you get off?” Jensen snaps. “I don’t care what it says on your coat”—he flicks the embroidery on Paul’s whites—“you’re my assistant and I expect my staff to stay in line.”

“Oh,” Paul laughs, “I know exactly how you keep your staff _in line_.” He slides forward, forcing Jensen to shuffle in the opposite direction, putting a wide berth between them.

Jensen has no response for the vinegar in Paul’s tone. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t have to listen to this shit,” he says. “Now get back on the line before we really have a problem.”

Part of him wants Paul to argue—the tenderized part of his psyche that bleeds for conflict—so he’d have an excuse to vent the pressure building up between his ears. But his sous chef turns and walks out, leaving Jensen alone in the midst of cold metal hardware and valuable inventory.

And suddenly, Jensen knows for a fact that he should have listened to Sebastian. Coming in tonight was a mistake.

*****

 **HOME**

“So this is what you do when I’m not around.”

The scene in front of Jensen is the first thing that’s made him smile all day. Every square inch of the couch is covered in beast—canine and human. Jared’s real estate is the center cushion, legs like a log bridge over to the ottoman, and the dogs have moved in next-door. Paisley’s stretched out with her head on Jared’s thigh (that doesn’t look like such a bad place to be), one ear flopped backwards, and Scout’s bulk is encroaching on Jared’s other side.

“Hey, wha—” Jared blinks until his eyes open all the way. “What are you doing home?”

“Decided to take the night off,” Jensen says, “and I’m glad I did because this whole show is hilarious.”

“Umm…I just sat down and the dogs pounced. Warm body, you know?”

No, but Jensen would love to find out.

Hemmed in on both sides, Jared can’t move. He tilts his head against the back of the sofa to ask, “So, why tonight? It’s Tuesday.”

“If I’d stayed, I’d probably be calling you later on to ask for bail money.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” Jensen says, scrubbing over his face. “But hey, Miranda’s always telling me to let Paul have more shifts…”

“You left that douchebag in charge?”

“Hell no!” He laughs. “I told Dom to take over for me, and—what the hell is that smell?”

“Shit!” Jared squirms before he realizes he’s not going anywhere with at least seventy pounds of sleepy dog bookending him. “I was making dinner.”

Going to investigate the odor coming from his microwave, Jensen finds a congealed, colorless mass marinating in a petri dish of black, number two plastic.

“Jared! This isn’t dinner—it’s not even real meat! It’s a piece of cardboard soaking in chicken-flavored chemicals.”

From the couch, Jared accepts his chastisement. “I didn’t have the energy to cook and there wasn’t much in the fridge.”

To Jensen, that sounds like a challenge, and he’s happy to have something to focus on. “You’re lucky I came back and saved your ass, literally. This abomination would’ve wrecked you.”

“I can make something else—”

“Sit!” Jensen orders with a smile. “I’m cooking. You just stay there and be a good warm body.”

Jared laughs. “I am so glad you came home, man.”

Jensen silently agrees as he starts pulling ingredients together. But first things first: he needs to get Jared’s digestive atrocity out of the house before the smell imprints on his clothing.

*****

To his credit, Jared waits until they’ve finished eating before he asks, “Gonna tell me what happened?”

“At work?” Jensen resituates himself on the couch next to Jared where the dogs had lost the battle of occupation. “Paul was being a dick.”

Jared shakes his head. “Paul’s always a dick. There’s something else though, so what’s up?”

Jensen expects the question to scrape his nerves raw, but he feels nothing besides the urge to bare the truth. “My parents died eight years ago today. It’s not like I don’t think about it every other day of the year, but there’s something about the exact day…and normally I’d take today off and spend it with Josh, but that wasn’t exactly an option so I thought working would be the next best thing.” Jensen tells himself that if he keeps talking, Jared won’t be able to lower his eyes and say ‘I’m sorry’ the way so many people do. “But that didn’t go the way I planned. Dom’s been around long enough to know what the date means, and I guess Miranda knows because Paul was giving me shit about it.”

He takes a breath, waiting for Jared to say something.

“Have you talked to Josh today?”

“Yeah, he called me the earliest he could get away with it.”

“So, like, noon?” Jared’s smirk is barely there, but it’s enough.

“Nine.”

“Holy shit, that’s practically dawn to you,” he teases and ducks Jensen’s swipe. “It sucks that you guys can’t be together. That’s gotta be rough for both of you. I’m sure your day would have been much easier if Josh were here.”

“Maybe,” Jensen says, “but it’s better than I thought it’d be, you know? I know Josh has Gemma to talk to, and I’m doing okay now that I’m here instead of at the restaurant.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “I escaped without doing something that would have led to an assault charge, got to have a nice dinner, and threw that microwave gunk masquerading as food outside in the trash where it belongs.”

“So glad my culinary shortcomings amuse you.”

“Dude,” Jensen says, “your entire existence amuses me.”

“Hey.”

Jared throws him a lopsided smile. “Hey yourself.”

Leaning at opposite angles on the couch, they scan through the upper channels before settling on a commercial-riddled showing of _Chocolat_.

“I’d have sex with this version of Johnny Depp,” Jared remarks after a few minutes of easy, relaxing silence.

“Yeah?” Jensen asks. “I’d have sex with that ganache Vianne’s making.”

“Can I watch?”

“That’s a little kinky, even for you,” Jensen says, well aware that he’s not exactly in a position to know anything. The comment’s hangs there, but Jared doesn’t snatch at the bait. He nudges Jensen’s leg with his foot, wiggles so that he’s sitting even lower on the couch and his shoulder touches Jensen’s. On screen, Roux’s playing his guitar on the gypsies’ boat, but Jared’s no longer watching; he catches Jensen’s eye and shifts his body so that their chests are squared up. Jensen is lying when he tells himself he’s ready for Jared’s next move.

And though Jared kisses him, Jensen’s not about to start erasing hash marks in his mind. Jared’s mouth is warm and inescapable, but there’s little weight behind it; he lets the kiss take shape, softly, while Jensen’s open and willing, waiting for something deeper. It never comes. 

This kiss isn’t meant to be more; it’s meant as a comfort.

There’s no spark where their lips meet. Not chaste, but not yielding to prurient interests. Tongue pinned behind his teeth, Jensen folds his lips over Jared’s, loiters there to memorize the shape and the curve and the pliability. He can’t remember a time when he craved this kind of knowledge about his partner’s features, but Jared makes him long for the previously unimaginable. If patience is the price, Jensen can afford it.

“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” Jared says when they break apart, confirming Jensen’s guess. “I know you’ve got your own way of dealing, but if you need to talk…or if you need—”

Jensen doesn’t want him to finish the offer; he’s afraid he’ll say yes. “What I need is the rest of this movie and some of that blueberry streusel I brought home.” His heart applauds the move while his dick is plotting a mutiny.

Jared’s eyes flash. “The stuff Mark makes?”

“He wouldn’t let me leave without it,” Jensen says, turning back to the movie. But a few minutes later, he can’t ignore the fact that Jared’s lost focus, practically salivating next to him. “You can’t wait for a commercial, can you?”

“Hell no. I can already taste it. Please, Jen?”

“Dude, do I have to dish it up for you or something?”

As soon as Jared figures it out, he’s off like a shot. Scout and Paisley, always alert to someone in the vicinity of their bowls, take off after him. Jensen laughs and follows the rest of his pieced-together household into the kitchen.

*****

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

**RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“What the hell is this?”

The line comes to a halt—plates, knives, and tongs frozen in mid-air. More than a dozen pairs of eyes belonging to line cooks, commis chefs, servers, and dishwashers turn to the front of the kitchen where Jensen is standing opposite his sous chef. The offender is a square white plate sitting on the counter between them holding what is supposed to be Riverside’s Chicken Provencal special.

At least three people in the kitchen flinch when Paul crosses his arms and throws back a haughty, “I don’t see what the problem is.”

From her spot next to Jensen where she’s waiting for table seven’s entrees, Genevieve begins backing away from the metal counter as Jensen battles the heat lamps to be the object in the kitchen most likely to spontaneously combust. Even the heat lamp flickers, realizing it’s losing.

“The problem is,” Jensen measures each word, “I asked for roasted spring vegetables and you’ve handed me something that looks like baby vomit and smells worse.”

“You’re blind, Ackles,” Paul strains to speak between his clenched teeth. “They’re fine.”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to serve this shit at the fucking Golden Corral, much less in my kitchen,” Jensen hisses. So much for Sebastian’s advice of ignoring Paul. “Make it again.”

By now, nearly the entire staff has stopped working, waiting for a total knock-out or surrender. Saban’s pulled the steaks from the grill so they won’t overcook (now that’s professional), and Libby’s stabbed her filet knife through the salmon she’s working on. Only Mark continues to work, frosting his tarts, though Jensen would bet he’s got one ear tuned towards the front of the kitchen.

“I’m not going to waste my time redoing the entire plate,” Paul says. “You’d probably invent a problem with that one, too.” He spins towards Genevieve. “Serve it.”

Jensen drops his voice into sub-zero territory. “That plate’s not leaving my kitchen.”

Stepping into the standoff, Dom attempts to settle both gunslingers. “Paul, c’mon. Just plate up another—”

“I’ve got this, Dom,” Jensen warns, setting his sights back on his sous chef. 

“Getting serious now, are we?”

“Make it again.”

This time, Paul grabs the edge of the plate and all but throws it at Genevieve. Jensen owes her a drink for the way she’s keeping her composure while sitting directly in the line of fire. “Serve it before it gets cold, sweetheart.”

Make that two drinks for the way Genevieve manages to resist slapping the shit out of Paul. Jensen, on the other hand, has reached his limit. He whips the plate out of Paul’s hand and watches in satisfaction as it hits the kitchen floor and shatters, spraying stringy vegetables on Paul’s pants. The chicken bounces out of sight under the stove.

“What the fuck?” Paul curses. Jensen’s grateful he has enough sense not to yell, the sound carrying out into the dining room.

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

“The hell with that,” Paul growls. “Remake it yourself.”

That’s it. Jensen fumes and even the heat lamp must know the battle is lost. His voice is heavy yet steady when he says, “Get the hell out of my kitchen, Paul. I won’t tolerate this from someone working under me.”

Paul’s expression mutates into something sharp and monstrous. His perverse laugh echoes throughout the kitchen. "That’s not what I’ve heard, Jensen,” he says, low and buzzing as if he’s whispering directly into Jensen’s ear. He leans over the counter, feigned privacy, but it won’t matter. Everyone’s listening. “I’ve heard that you tolerate quite a bit when someone’s _working_ under you.”

Jensen’s heart skips a beat but he controls his voice enough to say, “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Get out.”

“C’mon, Jensen. No need to be shy about it. I’m sure everyone knows the way you run things. If you want to get ahead, you’d better get on your—”

Jensen can only stammer. “What the—are you serious right now?”

“I’m only speaking from personal experience—”

“Enough!” Mark pushes his way between Jensen and the counter, forces him back with a hand over his chest. Jensen was right; he had been listening. Through wide and disbelieving eyes, Jensen watches Mark shove Paul back to his station. “Remake the fucking dish before I tell Miranda that you’re cocking up her dinner service.” Paul’s still as a statue and Mark’s lip twitches. “Now!” 

That sets Paul in motion, but the rest of the staff remains frozen. “What the hell are you lot waiting for, eh?” Mark’s cockney accent roars. “Back on the line!” 

In a flurry of movement, the kitchen’s up and running again. Genevieve sets the other plate for table seven under a heat lamp and retreats to the dim calm of the dining room. Saban’s got the grill sizzling in no time at all and Libby starts singing an old Sam Cook song at her station.

Without Paul in his personal space, Jensen can finally take a breath. Apparently that’s not good enough for Mark. “Go get some air, Ackles,” Mark tells him, nudging him towards the back of the kitchen with a far less brutal touch than he’d given Paul.

“I can stay.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “We can survive without you for five bloody minutes. Go.”

*****

The back door opens with a whine, careful footsteps crunching on the gravel covering Riverside’s back lot.

“Need me to come back in?” Jensen asks as the shuffle of small stones goes silent behind him.

“Actually things have slowed down,” Dom tells him, walking around to sit beside Jensen at the battered, old café table set up for the smokers. The metal is pocked with little black char marks where countless cigarettes have been snubbed in exhaustion and frustration. Jensen understands the appeal. “Thought I’d take a break, too.”

He considers letting it go; there’s nothing wrong with grabbing a few minutes of peace away from the stifling heat and steam inside. But Jensen’s too wound up. 

“Nice try,” he says. “I saw the line of tickets waiting. What’s up?”

“Dawson,” Dom mutters as if he’s speaking against his will. “He keeps running his mouth.”

“Saying what?”

The lines on Dom’s face pull tight, reluctance in his eyes. But his expression melts into resignation after a minute of enduring Jensen’s gaze. “He’s saying that you’ve been sleeping your way through the staff. I guess Miranda told him it was a habit of yours or something.”

Jensen tries to muster the energy to kick-start his rage, but it can’t move past his stomach, settling there like a weight.

“And that’s not all.” Somehow, Jensen knows what Dom’s about to tell him. “He said that you—that you and he…”

The pressure threatens to force its way up from Jensen’s gut. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Dom’s quick to reassure him. “Jensen, we all know better than to listen to Paul. He’s a fucking moron if he thinks bullshit like that’s gonna fly. And the fact that you’ve haven’t slept with a single person on the staff since the re-opening is more than enough to discredit him.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Huh?”

“That I haven’t hooked up with anyone.”

“Please,” Dom scoffs. “You’ve been too busy trying to stay one step ahead of Miranda and her lackey,” he explains, injecting a minor dose of humor into his voice. “Plus, there’s Jared. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so serious about a relationship—no way you’d fuck that up for one of us.”

Jensen knows he’s saying it in friendship, but Dom assuming there’s more to his relationship with Jared doesn’t relieve the pressure at the back of his throat. If anything, Jensen feels worse, because as much as he’d like to cross that line between roommates and boyfriends, Jared’s got a solid grip on his collar, holding him back.

Jensen needs to focus on what’s in front of him. “I’m not leaving.”

“I am,” Dom says, making Jensen look up. “Come on, man, you can’t be that surprised. I made a mistake when I didn’t take the job as your sous chef when you offered it to me, and I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Maybe we could’ve avoided all this shit if I had, but I can’t change it now.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Stacy typed up a letter giving my two weeks’ notice,” Dom says, avoiding Jensen’s stare. “It’s in my bag. I did it because, despite what you say, you’re not gonna stick around here forever, and I can’t work for Miranda. I started looking after we talked, you know, about you and Paul…”

“Do you have a plan?”

Dom nods. “You know Lionel Thibodeau?”

“Of course,” Jensen says. “He wants to open a French-Asian-Southern fusion restaurant down off Meeting Street.”

His old friend smiles. “Who’s got two thumbs and a new job as his sous chef?”

“Shit, really?” Jensen forces the grin to stay on his face. “That’s awesome, man. Congrats. You deserve that job.”

“Dealing with you for the last year? Damn right I do.” Dom shares his smile, clearly thinking he’s got Jensen on the better side of his funk. He throws his hand over Jensen’s shoulder. “Let’s get back in. I have a feeling Mark’s keeping Dawson cornered like a scared little puppy, and Genevieve’s already organizing drinks for later. Man, you should have seen her go off on Paul,” he adds, whistling. “She told him she’d castrate him with a boning knife if he called her sweetheart ever again.”

“If I was straight, I’d fall at her feet and beg her to sleep with me,” Jensen says, following Dom across the gravel lot.

“If I didn’t have Stacy,” Dom teases, “I’d totally join that threesome.”

*****

 **HOME**

The first beer was a good idea. Jensen needed to digest something other than indignation, and it felt so good going down. Genevieve, Dom, Libby, and a handful of Riverside’s other servers and cooks had flocked to the Market Street bars, claiming a corner full of cocktail tables for themselves.

The second and third beers helped to dull his rage; helped him laugh when Libby made a crude joke; helped him react when someone slapped his back and reassured him that Paul was full of shit.

Jensen’s fourth beer was a bad idea. Maybe it was his empty stomach, or the fact that nothing could override the emotions seared in his mind, but instead of catching a buzz, Jensen fell deeper and deeper into the pit his thoughts were digging.

By now, everyone’s starting to relax (and they all deserve it, Jensen thinks), but by the fifth beer, Jensen’s had enough. He’d come too close to losing it tonight. For fuck’s sake, he’d almost let Paul _win_. The thought is unbearable. So Jensen says his goodbyes, leaves half a beer sitting on the table along with a couple of twenties to cover a round of shots for the group, and walks back to his car.

The alcohol had dissolved the wall he was trying to maintain between the issues at home and the clusterfuck at work. He hadn’t wanted them blending together, because Jared is the only thing keeping Jensen from sinking completely. Riverside _consumes_ Jensen, but Jared is his distraction; when Jensen’s at home, Jared makes it possible to forget.

And yet the two of them are stuck in a domestic non-relationship, the intricacies of which are boggling.

He makes it across the James Island Connector and home without incident, turning into the driveway to find the lights still on in the house. Jensen checks the Prius’ clock. 12:03. Walking inside, Jensen’s sensing a touch of déjà vu—Jared looking soft and familiar in knit pants and a t-shirt, waiting for Jensen with a pensive strain to his features.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Jensen can’t help the scathing reply that comes on instinct. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gen called me,” Jared says, gently pulling Jensen’s bag off his shoulder and propping it against one of the counter stools. “Jesus Christ, Jen. You should have texted me or something.”

He sighs. This is a scene he’d wanted to avoid. Ideally, Jensen would have walked in and gone straight to bed. “What’d she tell you?”

Jared’s recap doesn’t cover half of what went down between Jensen and Paul, but Genevieve had covered the basics. Jensen tries not to relive the details, but Jared appears to be working himself up and he can’t help it.

“She forgot to mention that Paul accused me of being the kitchen slut,” Jensen says without much emotion. To that, Jared has no response. He stares at Jensen, eyes hidden behind the shadow of his hair. Seeing an escape route, Jensen drops the rest of his things on the counter and turns towards the hall, deserving nothing more than a pillow over his face.

But Jared isn’t letting him have the last word. “That’s it?” he asks, cut-off laugh of disbelief. “You’re just leaving it there?”

When Jared steps closer, Jensen notices the rigid set to his jaw, the way his lips are tight over his teeth. “What else do you want me to say, Jared?”

“I want you to tell me that you decked the bastard!” Jared is seething. “I hope you at least told him to go fuck himself!”

Jensen puts some distance between them, circling back towards the kitchen counter. “No, but Mark did right before he sent me outside to ‘get some air.’”

“Jensen—”

“Dude,” Jensen can feel the alcohol’s slight effects on his speech, “it’s not like anyone believed him. It was just a rumor Miranda was using to try and discredit my position.”

Jared throws his arms up. “Unbelievable. Why the hell didn’t you quit?”

Jensen grits his teeth. “We’ve been over this _so_ many times, Jared.”

“And you’ve never given me an answer that made sense.”

“It’s the perfect job for me,” Jensen says, aware that it’s a weak argument.

“How is it perfect?” Jared asks, doing an admirable job of keeping his anger roped in, considering Jensen can see the storm brewing in his green eyes. “You’re miserable! Your boss is telling people you’re some kind of slut, and you can barely get through a shift without finding something to be angry about. That kitchen—”

“It’s my kitchen!”

Jared’s voice finally crackles. “Not anymore apparently!”

Before Jensen can even think through a response, his frustrations come pouring out. “At least in the kitchen I know where I stand,” he snarls, “unlike with you where I’m never sure what the hell we’re supposed to be! We’re sure as hell not fucking, I know that much.”

“Is that what you want?” Jared quietly asks.

And seeing Jared deflate is like smothering a grease fire. Jensen wins back some of his composure. “It’s tough to tell you what I want when I don’t know what’s being offered. When we hooked up, I thought we were going somewhere, but you run warm one night and cold the next. The second I think we’re settling back into the friend-zone, you kiss me, or say something that makes me feel more than I think I’m allowed to.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you’ve realized that I’m kind of a mess. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to get involved.”

“You are kind of a mess,” Jared says, not without humor. Jensen appreciates the chance to smile. “But that’s not why I’ve been trying to keep my distance. Even that’s hard to do, because I like being around you.”

Jensen agrees. “Then what is it?”

Sheepishly, Jared looks at the floor and says, “I make you happy.”

“And you’re telling me that’s a problem?”

Jared sighs. “It’s a problem because I’m the only thing that makes you happy right now, and that’s a lot of pressure on me. I don’t think we’d survive at your pace. And before you try to deny it,” he adds in a rush, “just think about it. You know it’s true.”

Without needing to think, Jensen can’t deny it. Josh is too far away to lend real support, and all he has is Jared. Here he was, thinking it would be enough.

“I feel so much for you, Jensen, but I’m terrified,” Jared goes on to say. “I don’t want to see you become the callous, twisted person you’d need to be in order to continue working for Miranda. I don’t give a shit how well you think you’re handling it—she and Paul are _destroying_ you. And instead of doing anything about it, you keep going back. It’s like you’re trying to punish yourself by not quitting.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jensen insists, waving the idea off before it can take root. “I’m not some fucking masochist.”

“No,” Jared says, “but you’ve spent years working the worst hours in the most stressful kitchens you could find that would hire you. And ever since Miranda took over Riverside, you’ve been jumping through hoops, playing her goddamn games and competing for your own job against that douchebag, Paul.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to be happy, Jensen, but you’re not. You’ve gotta do something different. You’ve gotta keep moving forward.”

Jensen’s breath stops on the way from his lungs to his lips. His eyes snap up to Jared’s and he blinks away the image of his brother standing there, saying the exact same thing. _Keep moving forward_.

“Cooking is my life,” Jensen says, feeling as if he’s repeating one of the last arguments he’d had with Josh before his brother left. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“So you have to do it in Miranda’s restaurant? Come on,” Jared scoffs. “That’s bullshit. You’re wasting your talent for a boss who sees you as a tool—a replaceable one. Tell me that’s what you’ve always wanted and I’ll drop this whole thing right now.”

Jensen could respond in any one of a dozen ways, but they all stick on his tongue and Jared gets nothing but silence. He’s beginning to resent the fact that Jared waited up for him, because Jensen could have gone his entire life without the stress of this conversation.

“And I’m not stupid, Jen,” Jared continues with a more forgiving tone. “Your animosity towards Paul comes from something beyond your rivalry in the kitchen. Something happened between you two, and from the way you clench your fists every time I say his name”—Jensen lets up on the furrows his blunt nails are digging into his palm—“it wasn’t pretty.”

“Don’t,” Jensen says, glad his mouth still works, at least. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Grasping for any excuse not to talk about Paul, Jensen shifts into reverse. “My ‘happiness’ aside,” he says, “if you feel all these things for me, why aren’t we together? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go? I care about you, you care about me, we go out on dates, have mind-blowing sex, and get another dog?”

Jared’s smile is so wistful, Jensen fights the impulse to run over and kiss him. But he has a feeling any contact would spark a violent reaction, sexual or not. Then again, anything would be better than facing this rational version of his roommate, trying to break through Jensen’s overworked and beer-soaked obstinance.

“We’re not part of a recipe. There’s more than one way for this to go.”

“So you’ve chosen the hard way for both of us.”

“Maybe you see it like that,” Jared says, dragging his sock-covered toes across the hardwood, “but I see it as the best way for me. No matter what, you’ll always be my friend, but I can’t be with the guy you’re becoming when you’re not at home. I can’t watch you burn out and get left with nothing, because if you continue to let Miranda and Paul dictate your every move, that’s exactly what you’re gonna have.

“So I can’t make the decision for you.” Jared pushes away from where he’s been leaning against the back of the sofa. “But I can tell you what I think and I can choose not to let myself get more involved right now.”

Struck mute, Jensen looks for the rest of an explanation in the play of cotton across Jared’s muscled back as he turns away. Nice to stare at, but there’s nothing there. He thinks about calling out, stopping Jared and finding some way to get them on the same page, but Jensen’s brain is close to overflowing and he barely has the energy to blink. That and he has no idea what would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak: regrets, confessions, or unfiltered anger. They’re all dangerous.

*****

 **SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES**

“I was really hoping for one of your pasta dishes.” Sebastian eyes the plastic to-go box containing Jensen’s butter lettuce and poached pear salad. “But this way I’m not cheating on the diet.”

Jensen looks at his therapist. “No offense, but you’re kind of a stick. People like you make me want to add a block of butter to everything I make.”

“It’s not my diet,” he says, popping the container and stirring bits of gorgonzola in with his lettuce. “My girlfriend believes that if we’re both following the same routine, it’s harder for her to cheat. Not that she needs it either.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I enjoy having sex, Mr. Ackles.” Sebastian grins at his own mockery. “And one must learn to adapt in a relationship. So unless you’re offering up that fine physique of yours, I think I’ll try to keep her happy.”

He watches Sebastian eat, listens to his comments on the balance between the tanginess of the homemade dressing and the sweetness of the crumbled pralines. And then he thinks about the way he’d nearly slammed Paul’s hand in the oven while he was poaching the Asian pears and the vehemence in Miranda’s eyes after Paul had fucking tattled. She reiterated that Jensen could either shape up or ship out.

And then he asks, “Am I working at Riverside because I’m trying to punish myself?”

Sebastian’s lucky a mosquito doesn’t fly into his open mouth. He flips through his notes, mouth pinched. “That’s not something I said, was it?”

“Jared, actually,” Jensen admits.

“Does Jared have a degree in psychology?” Sebastian admonishes.

“Nope, he’s a business major.”

Sebastian hums. “Maybe he should consider changing fields.”

“Wait.” Jensen leans forward, fingers threaded together. “You’re saying he’s right?”

“As loathe as I am to agree with your…”

“Roommate,” Jensen supplies.

“Yes, your roommate,” Sebastian acknowledges, a slightly sarcastic twist to his mouth. “Despite his lack of training, I think Jared’s hit on something. The fact that you’re even mentioning it to me means that you’ve been thinking about the idea quite a bit, and it bothers you.”

“You think?” Jensen bites. “But he’s wrong. I wouldn’t do that to myself.”

“Then there’s no reason to get worked up over it,” Sebastian says calmly, but the shrewd glint in his eyes means Jensen won’t escape without a little head-shrinking. “But why do you think Jared said that to you?”

Jensen drops his shoulders. “Probably because he was pissed off at me.”

“What caused that?”

Figures Sebastian won’t let that slide. “I had a few really terrible days at the restaurant and I took it out on him. I was trying to vent, but it got too personal.”

“What did you say?”

Between his confrontation with Paul, going out with his crew, and facing Jared afterward, that entire night is a blur in Jensen’s mind. Trying to remember specifics makes him cringe. “I told him I wasn’t going to quit despite the problems. He didn’t understand that being a chef is my dream job.”

Sebastian uncrosses his long, black denim-wrapped legs. “A chef,” he queries, “not Riverside’s head chef.”

“That’s what I meant,” Jensen says. “But Jared told me I was wasting my talent there.”

“I need to meet your roommate. These sessions would go much more smoothly if he were here telling me everything about you.” Setting his notes aside, Sebastian looks Jensen square in the eyes. “What do you love about being a chef, Jensen?”

The face Jensen pulls must not impress Sebastian; the doctor grins and waits as if they have all day. “Seriously?” Sebastian waves him on with a gesture. “Alright, I’ll play your little mind game. I love teaching people about food, whether they’re customers or on my staff, because I want them to appreciate what goes into making a great dish. Combining flavors in new ways, winning the respect of other chefs, and seeing someone truly enjoy what I’ve made for them.”

On the other side of the plum-colored area rug, Sebastian’s silent. He doesn’t pick up his pen, doesn’t shift his gaze away from Jensen’s. He’s _thinking_ , and Jensen has a nasty feeling he’s about to be kicked in the face by shrink-logic. As much as he can in a microfiber armchair, Jensen braces himself.

“And when was the last time you accomplished any of that working for Miranda?”

Before his brain cells can even being cataloguing the last few months, Jensen knows the answer. “Before the re-opening,” he mutters, already feeling the phantom bruise. “Ever since then, I’ve been putting out fires, defending my turf, and trying to keep my crew from quitting on me. I spend most of my time jumping through Miranda’s hoops and fighting to keep my job, and I’ve barely had a chance to develop new items for the menu, and that’s…that’s”—the realization shudders throughout his body—“that’s never going to change, is it?”

“I wish I could tell you, for sure, one way or the other,” Sebastian says, shifting to lean on the arm of his chair. “But I think our hour’s nearly up.”

Jensen startles, looks at the clock. Slumps after noticing that Sebastian’s right and he needs to be back at Riverside for dinner prep—just in time to be maneuvered out of running the pre-shift meeting and told, in detail, in just how many ways he’s disappointing Miranda.

Suddenly, a longer session doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. But Sebastian’s already filing his notes, disposing of the take-out container that held Jensen’s carefully put-together salad.

“I have to say,” Sebastian says just as Jensen’s getting ready to walk through the door, “if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about your cuisine, it’s that the recipes you create yourself are far and away the best.” The corners of his mouth curl up in self-amusement. “Just some food for thought.”

*****

 **RIVERSIDE GRILL**

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” Jensen whines. His ear burns from pressing his cell phone against it for too long. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

“You’re definitely crazy.” Josh sounds so far away; there is dead air at the tail end of his mocking response. “Come on, Jen. What are you so worried about?”

Jensen’s back-of-the-kitchen office is short on space, but he paces anyway, too frothed up to sit still. Beyond the door, he hears the sounds of the dinner rush heating up, but not even the thought of cooking could cleave him from this phone call. “You have no idea how scared I am, Josh. This could blow up in my face! I’d be starting from scratch all over again.”

“Hello. Living in Hong Kong, remember?” His smart-ass brother has a point. “Scary, life-altering decisions are my thing.”

Jensen sighs. “Not mine.”

“Which is why you’re analyzing the hell out of it,” Josh reminds him. Of course, Jensen disagrees; he’s being thorough. And safe. He’ll talk to Miranda with his pre-rehearsed ultimatum, and if nothing changes, he’ll brandish his two-week notice and that will be the end of it. “Seriously, I wish you would just throw a fit and walk out.”

“Yeah, because that’s a better plan.”

“You’re angry enough to do it. Hell, _I’m_ angry about what’s happening to you. Trust me, if I ever see Pierre again, I’m going to punch him in the face for screwing around in the first place and causing this mess.”

“What good would that do?” Jensen asks. He had no idea Josh was so incensed on his behalf.

“Probably nothing, but I’d feel a lot better.”

Jensen listens to his big brother laughing. It’s hollowed out from the long distance connection, but it’s a good sound—one he wishes he could hear in person.

He’s spent the last week listening to other people rule on his future. From Miranda and her colorfully arranged threats, to Sebastian’s cleverly concealed judgments. Even Dom hasn’t let the subject drop, using his new job as a way to convince Jensen to follow him out. But Jared has kept his thoughts to himself since their argument, and though Jensen knows what his roommate’s opinion would be, he actually _wants_ to hear it. He misses the sound of Jared’s voice.

They haven’t spoken much in the last few days. Finals and presentations have claimed most of Jared’s free time and Jensen put in extra hours trying to figure out his next move. Jensen continued to bring home leftovers and leave containers of home-cooked meals in the fridge, which disappeared with their regular frequency. When their paths crossed in the living room, or when Jensen would meet Jared on the front steps as he left for work and Jared returned with the dogs, the looks shared between them were stuffed with meaning.

Josh clears his throat. “Before I left for Hong Kong, do you remember when I asked if you wanted me to stay? I know you thought about saying yes, because it would’ve been easier for you.”

Jensen says, “I was trying not to be selfish.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been trying not to be selfish for the past few months,” Josh admits. “Every time you called to tell me what happened with Miranda, or I read your emails about Paul and the crap he pulled, I wanted to tell you to quit. I never did, because I _knew_ this was your dream job and if I told you to leave, I was afraid you’d do it. But for my own peace of mind, I wanted you out of that place, Jen.”

“You’re telling me to quit now,” Jensen points out. “What changed?”

“Maybe I’m being a little selfish. Knowing you wouldn’t have to put up with Riverside anymore would make me really happy.” Then, as Jensen stops pacing and stands in front of the little circle of daylight cut into the back wall of his office, Josh adds, “But now I know your heart’s not in that place anymore, Jen. You’re ready to go forward, but you’re scared to give up on an old dream.”

“My dream never changed,” Jensen argues softly, watching the magnolia trees in the alley dance in the light wind. He takes a deep breath; he’s never admitted this aloud. “But Riverside _did_. As long as I’m here, I can’t be the chef I want to be, so unless Miranda agrees to get this place back on track”—even as Jensen suggests this, he knows it’s utopical—“I’m gone.”

*****

A few minutes after Josh lets him go, Jensen’s ready to face his kitchen, keeping his fingers crossed that the drama will be kept to a simmer.

Jensen hears the sweet, old sound of The Drifters coming from Libby’s station; she claims the music keeps her blood pressure down, and the one time Paul had tried to turn it off mid-shift, Libby had thrown a two-and-a-half pound live lobster at his face. By the grill, Jensen sees Saban and his guys through the sweet fog of smoky mesquite. Dom is manning Jensen’s station where he handles four pans with ease. Ever since he’d accepted his new job, Dom’s been lighter than French meringue, walking out of his shifts wearing the same smile he had coming in, working through his last two weeks with more enthusiasm than Jensen’s ever seen him apply to food.

The only one missing is Paul, and Jensen couldn’t care less.

Seeing his line well in hand, Jensen bypasses the sauté burners and checks tickets at the counter, summoning any idle servers he sees to run food before his cuisine is sabotaged by the heat lamps.

“Jensen?” Genevieve steps up to the counter, the deep cut of her black v-neck framing milky skin. “The customers at table eleven are big fans of yours, and they asked if you would stop by so that they could compliment you on your food.”

“Genuine or snobby?”

“Oh, totally genuine,” she says. “They’re awesome.” _Awesome_ being a term that usually translates to a hefty tip.

Listening to a foodie compliment his entrées would really season Jensen’s night, so he thinks nothing of untying his apron and checking his coat for stains. “I’ll be out in a second,” he tells her, toweling sweat from his face. “Let me wash up a bit.” 

Out in the dining room, he finds barely-managed chaos. The wieldy line of tickets in the kitchen doesn’t reflect the amount of activity at Riverside’s tables, and the bar is standing-room only as Julie’s copper ponytail swings back and forth as she rushes from one customer to the next. Normally Miranda would handle bar-overflow (it’s a great way to meet-and-greet without working too hard), but she’s nowhere to be seen. On his way to table eleven—a cozy two-top in the front corner—Jensen spots a familiar face in the throng around the bar.

“Reid,” he greets the man wearing a kiwi polo shirt and black slacks. “I didn’t know you’d be stopping by.”

“I was looking at office space up on Meeting Street,” Reid tells him, returning Jensen’s handshake, “and I thought I’d swing down here for a bite while Andy’s out of town.” 

“Offices for the magazine?”

“We’re almost up and running,” Reid says with a smile. “In a few weeks we’ll start putting together the first issue. Hopefully we’ll be able to distribute one or two promotional issues before the holidays. Actually, since you’re right here, I wanted to talk to you about—”

They both turn at the sound of glass breaking. Near the host stand, the waiting crowd had swelled around a waiter, knocking the glass of wine out of his hand.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full tonight,” Reid says.

“You wouldn’t know it in the kitchen. This is the first time I’ve been out here.” Jensen gestures over his white coat and chef’s pants. “Think anyone would mind if I started taking orders?”

Reid nods at a point behind Jensen’s left shoulder. “Your sous chef may have beaten you to it.”

And that’s when Jensen sees Paul standing over table eleven with a stomach-turning smile on his face. Miranda’s polished talons are wrapped around his forearm—the bitch and her new stud—as the two of them poach compliments from Genevieve’s table.

Jensen’s vision goes red as if he’s been soaked in bitter cabernet. He stands, rigid, watching Miranda schmooze and simper alongside her chosen one, and a bell rings in his head. The time has come to make his choice; he’s way past _safe_ and _thorough_.

Reid, sensing trouble, steps away. “Now might be a bad time to talk business,” he says, shrugging. “Feels like more of a Basil night anyway.” Jensen barely notices Reid’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you give me a call sometime next week?”

Jensen collects himself enough to see Reid off, but then his focus returns to the scene-stealing pair hovering over table eleven. Ignoring the looks he attracts from his customers, Jensen slides up behind Miranda just in time to overhear her mindless sycophancy.

“—and Chef Dawson has wonderful ideas on how to take our menu to new heights. His vision—which I share—is the future of Riverside Grill.”

“But the food is already wonderful,” the man at Genevieve’s table is saying. “Chef Ackles is one of this city’s rising stars, and he’s done an incredible job transforming traditional Southern cuisine. Why would you want to change that?”

Jensen butts in, holding his hand up. “I’d like to hear the answer to this.”

“Jensen!” Miranda, after a sharp double-take, manages to tame her shock. “I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think I’d come out of the kitchen to hear you turn your back on the menu I created? The kitchen I _built_?” He fumes internally while making sure a smile is stuck to his face.

“Jensen,” Paul hisses, sticking his misshapen nose into the conversation. “Now’s not the time!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Paul,” Jensen says. “Now is the perfect time.” He turns to his customers—who appear to be his last at Riverside Grill. “I’m sorry for disrupting your dinner, and thank you for your business, but I’m afraid that Riverside Grill and I have decided to part ways.”

His declaration brings a chorus of responses.

“—intend to cause a scene in the middle of my—“

“—such a shame, we enjoyed your food so—“

“—typical of you, trying to ruin my moment by—“

By now, their trio has drawn the attention of half the dining room, which is enough of an audience for Jensen’s finale.

“I quit, Miranda,” he says, feeling the pressure leak out of his chest as soon as the words are gone. “Effective immediately.”

It’s that simple—there are no rants and no hysterics. Unlike what Miranda accused him of, Jensen doesn’t want to cause a scene. He wants to leave this instant. It’s not that he fears regret, but he can see an entire book of possibilities opening up, and Jensen’s eager to start cooking for himself again.

Customers shift away to let him pass, creating a path to the kitchen. He opens the door and the familiar sounds of metal-on-metal, hissing steam, and pots rattling on the stove are silenced immediately—someone has obviously carried the gossip back here.

“Bad news, guys,” Jensen says. “Looks like y’all are on your own for the rest of the night.”

Dom looks over from the sauté line. “I think it’s great—”

“How dare you!” 

Miranda swoops into the kitchen, swinging doors flapping behind her like a harpy’s wings, with Paul on her heels. Both are boiling over with irritation, but Jensen’s interested to see that Paul’s is focused on Riverside’s owner.

“You can’t just _quit_ , Jensen! And in front of my customers!”

“Why not?” Jensen throws back. “You’ve practically been begging me to quit for a month. Or have you finally realized that losing me means you’re stuck with Paul as head chef, and you know—you just _know_ —that this place won’t survive him?”

“Fuck you, Ackles,” Paul snarls, but no one is paying attention, not even Miranda whose green eyes are considering Jensen. Her lips thin out until they’re flat and pulled between her teeth.

“Are you telling me you want to stay?” she asks Jensen.

He laughs at the absurdity. “Fuck no, Miranda! That’s what ‘effective immediately’ means. I wouldn’t stay if you got down on your knees and _begged_ me to.”

Seething, Miranda reaches out and grabs the first thing her hand touches: the handle of a ladle sticking out of a pot of cucumber-mint sauce for one of Libby’s dishes. The metal whirls unsteadily through the air and connects with Jensen’s chest, splattering foam green sauce everywhere. Jensen glances down at his whites; it looks as if he’s bleeding green, gored in the chest by the enormous stainless steel spoon. 

“If you walk on me,” Miranda snarls, her perfect veneers flashing, “I’ll make sure you never run a kitchen in this city again. You’ll be lucky if someone hires you as a prep cook!”

That reduces Jensen to a bent-over, knee-slapping laugh. “You think your _word_ goes past the front door? I’ve got more connections than you’ll ever be able to scheme your way into. So go ahead,” he warns her, “try to blacklist me. See how well that works out.”

Jensen spins on his heel, oblivious to the cucumber-mint sauce splattered up and down his white jacket. He expects to feel more as he passes between his station and the rest of the line; he thought the weight of giving his soul to this place over the past year would flatten his shoulders and break his back, stop him before he made it to the door. But Jensen breathes easily and finally understands that his soul left Riverside a long time ago—Jensen just hadn’t been paying attention.

“Jensen! I—”

He doesn’t stop for Miranda’s last-ditch appeal, but he hears Paul’s sniveling tone as he talks over her. “Let him go,” Paul insists, loud enough for the entire kitchen to catch it. “You know I don’t need him.” Jensen smirks, knowing Miranda’s expression won’t display the same confidence. Maybe Paul was a pawn she used to ensure Jensen’s cooperation, but he’s the only ally she has left. Given how often he’s witnessed the two of them turning on others, Jensen wonders how long it’ll be before they’re turning knives on each other.

But they’re not his problem anymore. The restaurant Jensen created with Pierre closed its doors a long time ago. Taunting Paul, Jensen throws a glib, “best of luck,” over his shoulder and moves on. 

Locking eyes with Mark, Libby, and Saban, Jensen nods and smiles. They’ll understand his move tonight, and they’ll survive. If Jensen had the means to open his own restaurant tomorrow, he’d hire all three of them with no reservations.

To Dom, Jensen extends his hand and says, “See you on the outside, man.” His old friend reels him in, crushing them chest-to-chest and slapping Jensen in the middle of his back.

“We’ll be celebrating this very soon,” Dom says, and lets him go.

Jensen collects what few personal belongings he’d moved into his office, tucks Reid’s mock-ups under his arm, and pulls out his cell phone as he leaves through Riverside’s back door for the last time.

Josh is never going to believe this.

*****

 **HOME**

Jensen‘s not sure what to expect when he pulls up in the driveway, but it isn’t Jared standing on the front porch in a pressed suit and tie, shooing the dogs in through the door with their leashes dangling from his hand. His flyaway hair has been whisked behind his ears, and he’s watching Jensen step out of the Prius with alternating flashes of concern and hassle.

They start talking over one another when Jensen steps onto the porch.

“Nice suit—”

“I was just on—”

“Sorry,” Jensen says. “Keep going.”

“I was just on my way down to the restaurant, but the dogs needed their walk.”

“Let me guess, Genevieve called you,” Jensen says, and Jared confirms it with a nod. “How does she do that so fast? She was in the weeds when I left.”

Jared shrugs, and Jensen tries not to study how the movement lifts Jared’s jacket. The suit is an ounce too tight for him—he’s obviously added some bulk since the last time he wore it—but that does the overall cut a favor, drawing Jensen’s gaze along the ‘V’ of Jared’s upper body to his tapered waist.

“She must’ve thought it was important.”

“I was going to call you from the car,” Jensen says, “but I’ve been talking to Josh since I walked out.”

Jared waves it off. “Dude, it’s okay.” Walking into the house, he leaves the door open for Jensen to follow. “I get it,” he adds, a dull edge to his voice.

“You _get_ it?” Jensen shuts the door, drops his dirty coat and keys on the counter, and catches up with Jared in the back hallway. Hooking Jared by the elbow, he steers them against the wall outside Jared’s room. “Hang on, Jared. What is there to get?”

Jared’s eyes flare at the close contact; Jensen puts an arm’s length between them. “You just quit your job!” Jared exclaims, words rushing out like steam from a teapot. “I’ve been trying to get you to quit for _weeks_ , but you came up with excuse after excuse as to why you couldn’t. You love your job, Jensen, and I’m sure you blame me for the fact that you no longer have it—”

“Okay, you’re insane,” Jensen tells him, cutting the arm’s length down to a hand’s width. “I’ve been through a lot tonight. I humiliated myself in front of a hundred customers. I quit my job and told my boss to go fuck herself, and she responded by throwing a ladle full of sauce at me. I walked out of my own kitchen unemployed and filthy”—Jensen looks Jared straight in the eye; he wants Jared to _hear_ this—“and I think this is the happiest I’ve been in the last eight years.”

The caramel tones in Jared’s eyes begin to melt. “Jensen…”

“It’s true, okay?” Jensen wants to reach out and touch, but Jared’s frame remains inflexible. “I did this for me, because it’s what I want. I want to see what opportunities are out there, and maybe my next job won’t even be in a kitchen,” he adds, thinking of Reid. “Someday, I want to open my own restaurant, but it’s gonna take time. And right now, I want you to tell me that we have a chance,” he says, trying to keep from pleading. “You know me better than anyone—even better than Josh, because you weren’t afraid to tell me what I _needed_ to hear. I thought about you the second I told Miranda I wasn’t coming back, because you were right. I don’t want to be the type of person I’d need to become to survive in her kitchen.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me. And it’s okay if you want to wait until you’re sure—”

Jensen’s grateful that Jared’s tongue slips into his mouth and stops the rest of that thought from going past his teeth. It’s better left unfinished. Too stunned to respond with any kind of coordination, Jensen lets the kiss happen. Jared uses his astonishment to deepen the contact between their mouths, sliding his tongue so far it robs Jensen of his breath. Through all of that, he can still feel Jared’s smile against his lips. 

With Jared’s extra three inches (of height, thank you very much), Jensen is forced to tilt his chin up, finding he doesn’t mind the angle where their lips meet, anxiety-seared cheeks cupped in Jared’s palms. His hands slip under the smooth licorice-black fabric of Jared’s suit jacket, measuring out the planes of skin he plans on exploring later.

“Oh thank God,” Jensen says when Jared lets him speak again. “I was totally lying about that waiting crap.”

Jared says, “So you’re a liar? Good to know.”

“Shut up.” Jensen leans up, flicking the dimples he can reach with his tongue. “Let’s just move on to that _mind-blowing_ sex we’re supposed to be having.”

Jared draws his thumbs down Jensen’s throat, a pinch of pressure that sends Jensen’s blood racing south. Against his hip, he feels Jared’s _dough_ rising as well—and the adrenaline must be messing with Jensen’s brain for it to come up with metaphors like that.

Jensen tugs on Jared’s tie, steering them toward the master bedroom. “So what’s the deal with the suit?”

“I—ah…I had an interview,” Jared says, kissing along Jensen’s jawline and nipping at his chin as they walk-stumble along the hallway, kicking shoes off their feet and trying not to trip one another. Jensen wants to get Jared horizontal, but not on the hallway floor and definitely not in a scenario where they’d be nursing bruises for days afterward.

Jensen’s shoulder hits the doorjamb. “This late?”

“Dinner meeting at Magnolias.”

Jensen pulls back. “With Scott Cohen?”

Jared chases Jensen’s skin, pulling him flush as they finally fall onto the bed. Twisting at the last second, Jensen rolls Jared beneath him. 

“He told me you called him.”

“I did, but you never told me you had an interview.”

“You and I weren’t really talking,” Jared says, response muffled by the way his mouth works down Jensen’s neck, stretching the collar of his t-shirt to expose more skin. “And I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“Scott runs one of the best restaurant groups in the city.”

“I know,” Jared says, drawing Jensen’s leg between his and arching up into the friction. Jensen bears down into the heat, his pants and underwear feeling like a pressure cooker around his firming dick.

“They own Magnolias. Blossom. Cypress.”

“Yep.” Jared’s hands slip under Jensen’s shirt, raking down his back. Tired of the impediment, he pulls it over Jensen’s head and tosses it on the floor. 

“How’d it go?” Jensen asks, taking a moment to approve of his bare skin under Jared’s hands. “Did Scott offer you a job?”

“Jensen—” Jared playfully shoves Jensen off of his chest, laughing when he nearly bounces off the comforter. Jensen looks over and smiles at Jared’s open expression. “Are we gonna have sex or are you going to grill me about my interview?”

“You’re right,” Jensen says, advancing towards his previous position. “Questions can wait.”

On his hands and knees, Jensen lowers his head until he can capture Jared’s bottom lip between his teeth, tongue following to soothe the tender abrasion. When his tongue continues on past Jared’s lips, Jensen tastes a hint of rosemary and lemon, peppers and sweet potatoes—the remains of his dinner at Magnolias.

“For the record,” Jared says as Jensen’s in the middle of a scuffle with Jared’s tie, “the interview went great.”

Peeling Jared out of his jacket, dress shirt, socks, and pants requires an aggravating measure of concentration, but it’s worth it to uncover a landscape of perfect skin: sun-bronzed shoulders and forearms, a dusting of toffee-colored hair between his pectorals thinning out as it winds down through the valley of his core.

“Damn,” Jensen gasps, his fingers mapping the topography of Jared’s abdomen. “The only six-pack I’ve got is the one in the fridge.”

Muscles quiver under his hand as Jared laughs. “Shut up, you’re fucking hot.”

“I’ve got nothing like this.” Jensen kisses each ridge, lets his tongue linger in the divots shaping Jared’s hips. When Jared’s underwear hinders his journey, Jensen pulls them down, mounting the hill of Jared’s knees and letting them fall away on the other side.

“Gonna stare at me all night?”

“I didn’t get a good look last time,” Jensen says, eyes drinking their fill while Jared flexes on the bed. “Jerking off was tough when I didn’t have the whole picture.”

“Then by all means…” Jared works himself into a full body stretch, muscles becoming more defined through the pull. His thighs are thick, locked in a wanton spread, and his quads seduce Jensen’s gaze from his knees up between his legs, where his cock is full and leaking. Jensen is rapt, sitting back on his heels, trying to decide where to begin with the delicious buffet in front of him.

Jensen makes no secret of what he’s about to do, but as soon as his lips touch Jared’s skin, Jared shivers and tenses his thighs, framing Jensen’s shoulders between them. Jensen samples and licks, gathering fluid on his tongue and passing it back over his starving taste buds. Beneath him, Jared moans like a man who’s been stuck dating his right hand for too long (Jensen would know), garbled sounds of encouragement working their way past the gasps and groans.

Jensen has always enjoyed giving head ( _receiving it_ is a no-brainer), but he would award his experience with Jared three Michelin stars. Exceptional, not to be missed, and worth a special trip. Jared has a world-class cock with exquisite shape, which is appealing to the eyes—a succulent rhubarb head and a wide shaft—as well as the other senses. Pleasing to touch; its heft settles perfectly on Jensen’s tongue and tickles the back of his throat. A blend of tastes Jensen would enjoy sampling over and over, and aromas of sweat, cotton, and cologne that are drawn into his nose, completing the picture.

“God,” Jared keens, “you love this.” Jensen’s ravenous pleasure is too obvious; Jared doesn’t even make it a question. 

Past his initial shock, Jared gains control of his body, and he uses his hips to work his cock deeper into Jensen’s mouth, spreading the flavor over his palate. Jensen takes the full prominence, getting lost in the wide stretch of his lips (it’s been _so_ long). Slick pre-come seeps from the broad head, coating the inside of Jensen’s cheek. He swallows it down, stomach growling for more, along with the wetness his mouth produces to keep the long slide smooth and satisfying for Jared.

Jensen could suck Jared for _hours_ and be left craving more. Now that he’ll have more opportunities, he plans to take advantage until he’s blown Jared in every single room of the house, begging and panting if he has to. He can’t wait to drop to his knees in the kitchen, the smell of something baking in the oven, and pull out his soon-to-be-boyfriend’s cock (Jensen has no problem getting ahead of himself), swallowing his come as an appetizer. Or sit on the couch while Jared fucks his face with deep, slow strokes, Jared’s hands tangling in Jensen’s hair while he bastes his throat.

 _So fucking hot._ If Jensen’s not careful, he’s going to explode all over the sheets without ever touching his dick.

“Do you want me to come?” Jared asks, words unsteady as his lungs expel each shaky breath. “I bet you want to taste me,” he says while Jensen moans, lapping up the flavor on the underside of his cock.

He doesn’t stop sucking, which is enough of a response for Jared to grind his hips up into Jensen’s face, his legs tight around Jensen’s torso. His lips are wet and nearly frictionless as Jared shudders and throbs, climax breaking him wide open. And none of Jensen’s finger-licking-good fantasies could ever match Jared’s real taste; his come is tangy and full-bodied, warm as it runs down Jensen’s throat.

When he’s taken all there is and held Jared’s sensitive flesh between his cheeks through the aftershocks, Jensen crawls out from between Jared’s thighs on numb elbows, collapsing on his side. Jared, his breathing back to normal, rolls with him.

“Did I break you, Jen?”

“If I could move,” Jensen mutters, “I’d take you again.”

Jared hums, leaning in to steal a kiss from Jensen’s flushed lips. “Sounds promising, but I think it’s my turn.” His hand traipses across Jensen’s stomach, pushing his pants and underwear out of the way and grasping Jensen’s cock like a handle. “I couldn’t fully appreciate this when we hooked up, but I don’t think I can take my time right now either.”

Jensen finds the energy to free his legs from his pants, loose under Jared’s hands as he’s guided onto his back. Between Jared’s swift strokes—he could work a sauté pan like a pro—and the whispers dripping from Jared’s mouth into his ear, his arousal hasn’t cooled off; Jensen’s cock is harder than a fresh leek.

“I want to see you come.” Jared’s lips flutter around the whorls of his ear, pushing him higher, bringing him closer. His mouth is open around a soundless cry, wishing he could rip the ache right out of his chest. “Do it, Jen. Come all over my hand, and then I’ll let you lick it off,” Jared says, clearly trying to melt Jensen’s brain with the heat of his words. “I have a feeling you’ll enjoy that.”

As if he’s stuck his head in an oven, every breath Jensen takes burns his throat; he can barely breathe during Jared’s wicked torture. When it comes, Jensen’s orgasm is half desire and half desperation, tremors wracking throughout his body. Jared draws Jensen against his mile-wide shoulders, shaking with him, and when he brings his come-frosted hand up between their bodies, Jensen doesn’t care how eager he seems—the idea of tasting Jared’s skin under his own come makes his mouth water.

Jensen looks Jared in the eye while he sucks each of Jared’s fingers. Jared’s tongue joins in, though he finds Jensen’s mouth more than his own skin.

As suddenly as the scene had overheated, it cools quickly, leaving Jensen sprawled in a de-boned heap over Jared’s chest. Between stained lips, sticky hands, and semen solidifying in all the wrong places, they’re a mess, but Jensen is too relaxed to care. He’s actually starting to drift when Jared clears his throat.

“Now what?”

“Hmm?”

“You quit your job,” Jared says. “Remember? It was only, like, an hour ago.”

“Either it hasn’t hit me yet,” Jensen ponders aloud, “or you provided an excellent distraction.” That wins Jensen a kiss on the shoulder, both of them too tapped out to move. “I feel way too good to care about the next step right now.”

“You don’t have a plan?” Jared asks, snuggling contentedly into the grooves Jensen’s worn into the mattress. He’s going to have to buy Josh a new bed; there’s no way he can give this one back with a straight face.

“Maybe I do,” Jensen mumbles, “but I need to clear my head after everything that’s happened.”

“Doing nothing sounds pretty good.”

“I won’t be doing _nothing_ ,” Jensen clarifies, tightening his hold around Jared’s waist. “You’re in the middle of finals, so I’m thinking I need to take care of you for a change.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Jensen assures him. “I’ll let you manage the dogs, though, since they clearly love you more than me.” Jared gently grasps Jensen’s chin and tilts him up for a true kiss. The cool pressure reaches Jensen’s toes. “I can take care of the yard.”

“Do you even know how the push-mower works?”

Jensen shakes his head. “I’ll do your laundry and keep the house clean.”

Jared chuckles. “Can you afford to buy me a whole new wardrobe?”

“Fine,” Jensen huffs, not at all put off his brilliant idea. “But I _can_ cook.”

“No argument there.”

“You’ll have a different menu every day,” Jensen says, already planning his next shopping trip. Fresh fruit for blueberry cream and banana pecan pancakes; relish and cranberries from the farmer’s market to mix into a delicious summer chicken salad; the day’s fresh catch to pan-sear and season for dinner. “A happy body means a happy mind.”

“I can think of a few other ways to make my body happy,” Jared says, “but that comes later.”

Jensen can tell Jared won’t be conscious much longer—and he has no idea how he’s evaded his own post-coital nap this long—but he’s compelled to add, “I just want to make you feel good.”

He’s not anticipating an answer, and he certainly doesn’t expect Jared to nuzzle his forehead and say, “You already do. Just promise me one thing,” Jared adds, words garbled through a yawn. “You’ve got to apply for _Chopped_.”

Feeling extra generous after his better-than-mind-blowing orgasm, Jensen just goes along with it. 

“Alright. Why not?”

*****

 **TWO YEARS LATER**

**THE OLD VILLAGE  
MOUNT PLEASANT, SOUTH CAROLINA**

At eight o’clock in the morning, the songs of the early birds are drowned out by the birds who are just now waking up, and all of them are apparently gathered in the oak tree outside Jensen’s bedroom window.

He rolls away, hits the warm slope of Jared’s shoulder, and buries his head as far below the covers as he can, but the chirping’s incessant. Last night, he’d fallen asleep listening to the off-beat chorus of tree frogs that congregate in their neighbor’s bamboo fountain (which is nice and full thanks to the almost daily rainstorms moving through the Lowcountry), and clearly it had been too much to hope that he’d wake up to tranquility.

None of this bothers Jared who could fall asleep in the middle of a hurricane—and had last summer, although technically it’d only been classified as a tropical storm. Jared snuffles in his sleep, curling towards Jensen’s chest, and when his legs nudge Jensen’s apart, looking for cooler square-footage on the sheets, Jensen takes sharp notice of the erection poking his hip.

“G’morning,” Jensen mumbles, knowing from years of practice that his voice is one of the things sure to break into Jared’s sleep coma (along with Dundee’s barking and the smell of bacon). It’s difficult to translate Jared’s drowsy murmurs; easier to relax into the heat of Jared’s lips curling over his shoulder—not exactly a traditional good-morning kiss, but the pressure releases a thousand tiny tingles that run all the way down to Jensen’s toes.

Jared continues open-mouthed kissing his skin, over the hill of his bicep and around the bend of his elbow. Muscles waking up, the weight of sleep evaporates from his chest as Jared’s touch sparks life and burns away the lethargy. Two years, more or less, and Jensen’s never taken waking up like this for granted.

“Not sure we have time for what you’re thinking,” Jensen says, spreading his fingers out against the back of Jared’s neck.

“Take the day off.” The request comes from somewhere around Jensen’s navel.

“I can’t,” he says, combing Jared’s hair away from his forehead. “There’s a…ahhh.” Jared nuzzles his hipbones. “I have a meeting about features for the next issue.”

“Well I’m horny,” Jared says, licking the sheet-wrinkled skin of Jensen’s stomach, “and I’m not letting you leave this bed until that’s taken care of.”

For a second, Jensen’s in full agreement with Jared’s plan (what meeting?) until he remembers: “Wait, you _completely_ cut me off last week.”

Rubbing the point of his chin over Jensen’s hip, Jared hums, and the vibration sinks through the layers of his skin. “I had presentations and papers.”

“I had needs.”

“Shut up. I’m not your wife.”

Jensen sweeps his fingers along Jared’s cheekbone, checking him lightly under the jaw. “You would be if it were legal here.”

“Totally,” Jared agrees before biting his finger. “Now can we have sex, _please_?”

“Since you’re being polite…”

Jared bowls him over, smothers him with a wide stretch of body heat that’s soothing on this rare cool morning. He opens himself to Jared’s mouth, arms flung across the sheets as Jared kisses over his chest and up between his collarbones.

“I get foreplay?” Jensen asks, rolling his throat to create a bridge for Jared’s lips. “I must’ve done something pretty good.”

“You _were_ pretty good last night,” Jared compliments while he leans up to nuzzle behind Jensen’s ear.

Jensen rakes his hands over Jared’s temples, clasping around the back of his neck. He holds Jared enough to feel every breath against his skin. Their mouths may be too sour to kiss, but Jensen intends to enjoy Jared’s nonetheless. “Gunning for a repeat performance?”

Nips that tease with hints of teeth, a tongue that beguiles as it exploits Jensen’s sensitivity, Jared rolls his cock against Jensen’s thigh and says, “Feels like you’re up for it.”

To drive that point home, Jensen uses his legs to upset Jared’s balance and roll him onto his back, kicking the sheets away at the same time. Fresh air wafts down upon Jensen’s back from the ceiling fan, a contrast to Jared’s warm skin beneath him. He settles his weight on Jared’s chest, curling his fingers loosely around Jared’s upper arms.

“Right now?” Jared asks, cradling Jensen’s hips between his thighs. Jensen nods, and Jared takes a deep, extended breath. The inhale lifts Jensen’s upper body; the exhale brings him back. Feeling Jared’s strength in such a small but intimate way has been one of Jensen’s favorite sensations since they got together two years ago, and he never fails to take advantage when he has Jared, flat on his back and willing, and a little extra time. 

They undulate for a moment, Jared with a firm grip around Jensen’s waist. Not surprisingly, Jensen’s hard and he feels Jared’s cock swelling even more alongside his. After a week of missing one another because of Jared’s presentations and graduation preparations, and last night’s increasingly physical celebrations, Jensen’s in no rush to get off, but Jared is tossing his head around on the pillow, blush diffusing down his throat.

“Get the lube,” Jensen says, pushing up onto his knees to avoid taking an elbow to the face as Jared scrambles for the nightstand. The offer is already on Jensen’s lips: “Want me to—”

Jared shakes his head, coating Jensen’s cock with the lube he’d poured into his palm. “I’m still loose from last night.”

Which might be true; he’d fucked Jared twice. By the time they’d fallen into a sex coma, Jared was wide open and wet. Jensen had lazed for long minutes pushing his fingers through the slick, teasing Jared’s slack rim and soothing his sleepy moans. Another round right then would have broken Jensen’s cock, but he’s stalk-hard and willing now. However, he’s not eager to take Jared with only last night’s come and lube to ease the way.

Jensen snatches the lube from Jared’s hands, sinks his coated fingers into Jared knuckle by knuckle. He is loose, but Jensen would rather be safe than sorry. That, and he loves how responsive Jared is when Jensen’s breaching him with his fingers first.

“Come on, Jen,” Jared whines. “I told you—”

“I know what I’m doing, _thanks_ ,” Jensen says, knocking Jared’s python legs away before they squeeze him into submission. He exposes the shine of a day-old bruise on the inside of Jared’s left thigh, faint pink impressions of teeth ringing an oval of reddish-brown. Sense memory reminds him that he’d seared the mark into Jared’s skin with his teeth and tongue last night, eager to remind Jared what he’d been missing during his grueling final weeks of business school. He’s tempted to renew its luster this morning, only now he’d be staking his claim.

Jared whines from the back of his throat when Jensen’s lips tease the bite mark, leg muscles quivering. He doesn’t yank his limb out of Jensen’s reach though, and Jensen smirks against Jared’s skin after he leaves the bruise glistening with saliva, ringed by a fresh set of bite impressions.

“Jensen,” he pleads, his body doing its best to grasp and pulse around Jensen’s fingers. “ _Please_ …”

As much as he would like to punish Jared for freezing him out last week with soft touches and a leisurely attitude, Jensen’s cock is hot and throbbing, watery lube dripping down onto Jared’s balls. It’s impossible for Jensen to think as he enters Jared’s body, processing nothing beyond the give and stretch of Jared’s muscles; the way his inner walls clench and pull like a game of tug and war with Jensen’s cock as the prize.

Soon the spine-melting press of in-in-in turns to the satisfying rhythm of out-in-out. Jensen saws into Jared’s body, knees digging into the mattress for leverage.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Jared groans, latching his ankles around Jensen’s back.

“What about last night?”

“It wasn’t enough.” Jared gasps, neck cording as he twists into Jensen’s thrusts, inner muscles coaxing Jensen deeper. Jared’s eyes screw shut, mouth wide on a silent roar, and Jensen knows he’s found the perfect angle to batter Jared’s prostate. Last night, they’d fucked in half a dozen different positions, frantic and impatient, each one better than the last. Now, face-to-face with his boyfriend, Jensen doesn’t want to switch. They’re lined up perfectly, hips slotting together again and again like worn gears sliding into place. 

“C’mere, Jen,” Jared breathes, tongue darting out to meet Jensen’s as they fold into one another. His hands skim up Jensen’s back, nails scraping over his shoulder blades. Behind Jensen’s neck, Jared intertwines his fingers, keeping Jensen’s lips prisoner against his.

“Close?” Jensen asks, slipping the single word past Jared’s blockade of his mouth. Jared swipes his tongue behind Jensen’s teeth, groaning, before dropping his hands and releasing Jensen’s lips. “I’ll get you there, Jay. Let me see you work your cock.”

Rearing up, Jensen watches Jared wrap one hand around his raw, desperate flesh, stroking in time with Jensen’s lunges. He pistons in and out with added power, forcing his dick over Jared’s prostate. His heart beats against his chest, counting down the seconds before pleasure takes him, but he _needs_ to see Jared get off first.

“Faster, Jay,” he directs, breathless. “I know you’re so close.”

And he’s right; Jared seizes, his grip going solid as he comes all over his stomach. Semen gathers in the valley between his abdominal muscles, slick and opaque and _delicious_ if Jensen could just get his tongue down there to taste.

Jensen keeps pounding through Jared’s completion, every half-broken sound from Jared’s mouth urging him on. Grips Jared’s thighs and holds them around his waist, nails digging scalloped rows into Jared’s skin. Jensen breaks on his final thrust, knees sliding out from under him as orgasm rips through his muscles.

Quicker on the recovery, Jared gathers Jensen against his chest. “Mmm, good morning,” he says, barely wincing as Jensen pulls out.

“It was, huh?”

“Aren’t you glad you stayed in bed just a little longer?” Jared asks.

Jensen leans up, savoring the sweet kiss Jared drops on his lips. “Always. But now I’m _really_ going to be late.” He sees Jared’s mouth starting to fold into a pout and trades him another kiss. “Totally worth it, though. Maybe I should call out sick…”

“Reid would see right through you,” Jared says, moving to stretch but giving up halfway through, tucking his face back into his pillow. “Better get going.”

“Fine,” Jensen huffs. “Are you gonna get up?”

Jared’s _nope_ is muffled in the down pillow; Jensen can’t blame him. The last few weeks have been rough, and if Jared wants to savor four days off from any kind of responsibility (even Scott had insisted Jared cash in his vacation time) until his family flies in for his Master’s ceremony later in the week, Jensen’s not going to argue with him.

Jared doesn’t get out of bed until Jensen’s finished with his shower and starting to get dressed. He ambles past Jensen to their bathroom, idly scratching his belly. The mottled flush is fading from his skin and his cock hangs down along his right thigh. Transfixed, Jensen almost abandons the buttons to kneel at Jared’s feet and indulge his palate with velvety soft, musky skin. But he’s already used up his quota of ‘morning sex’ excuses with Reid (who sympathized at first), and today’s meeting is an important one.

Instead, Jensen asks, “You still up for dinner tonight?”

It catches Jared in the middle of a yawn. “Huh?”

“Dinner downtown. I mentioned it last night, but then we got a little distracted…”

“Mmm, right,” Jared says, walking back into the bedroom. He grabs running shorts and a College of Charleston School of Business t-shirt from the dresser. “Are we going to Cru? It’s been a while since you’ve seen Dom.”

“Maybe. I haven’t made reservations yet.”

“Just text me with the time and place.” Dressed for his morning run around their cozy, Old Village neighborhood, Jared walks up to Jensen with lips begging for a kiss. Jensen’s mouth is so fresh and tingly from the minty rinse, he barely minds the bitterness on Jared’s tongue. “I’m gonna take Dundee with me to the beach later. Genevieve and her boyfriend are bringing tons of food. You sure you can’t come down for a little while?”

“I’ve got a crazy day.” Jensen wishes he could tell Jared the whole of it, but the deception will pay off later. “But tell Gen I said hello.”

Jared picks up his sneakers and walks off, stretching as he disappears down the hall. Dundee’s sharp barks punctuate Jared’s _thunk_ -pause- _thunk_ as he stomps down the stairs, cooing to their Australian shepherd mix when he gets to the bottom. Jensen hurries to finish dressing, a smile on his face the entire time.

*****

The enormous red and blue dolphin tail of a cruise ship leaps above Charleston’s low skyline from where it’s docked at the Cooper River terminal. Jensen can see it as he walks down Meeting Street with Jared, weaving through packs of map-clutching tourists pausing to take pictures in front of pre-Civil War buildings, wrought iron gates protecting courtyard gardens, and cemeteries overgrown with ivy.

Turning off Meeting, Jensen leads Jared past a stone-laid piazza set just off the main road. It’s shaded from the sunset by a series of arbors and trellises. Beyond, stands a three-story building of brick, stone, and stucco whose true age is tough to place. Iron rails enclose narrow balconies that protrude here and there from the upper floors. At street level, expansive picture windows open onto the tranquil beauty of downtown; a line of crepe myrtles garnished with pink and white blooms dot the sidewalk.

Jensen stops in front of a particular window while Jared keeps walking, oblivious until he goes to say something and wises to the fact that Jensen’s behind him.

“Don’t tell me you’re lost,” he sighs, retracing his steps.

“Nope,” Jensen says, “this is the place.”

Approaching the window, Jared cups his hands and peers inside. Jensen rocks on his heels, studying Jared’s face for a reaction, but all he sees is the dark shadow reflected from inside.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone here yet.” Jared leans away and checks his watch. “Are we early?” he asks. “I don’t see a sign. When do you think they open?”

Jensen’s heart is beating at a nervous jitter, face fighting a grin. “This fall.”

“So why—” Jared stops and whatever else he’s going to say falls into the unknown, lost forever. He looks between Jensen and the empty storefront, his oak green eyes unscrambling the clues.

Wait for it…

“ _Jen_ ,” is all Jared manages to say before physical reaction subdues his speech. The way Jensen’s grin breaks out into a cheek-splitting smile is confirmation enough for Jared to launch himself over the cobblestones and smother Jensen in a hug.

“Oh my god. _Oh my god_ ,” Jensen listens to Jared repeat with less and less breath each time. He lets Jared have his freak out (because Jensen’s had more than his share already), happily enduring the way Jared sways around with him on the sidewalk in a dance that must look absurd to anyone strolling down the side street.

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening. How did you—” Jared tries, cutting himself off. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“It came together pretty quickly,” Jensen admits. “Reid’s been scouting the space for a while, and as soon as it opened up, he called me and we had to jump.” He tilts his chin towards the dappled sunlight shining through low-hanging branches. “It’s perfect though, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think you could have picked a better location,” Jared says, touched by wonder. Then the business slice of his mind jumps into the conversation. “Reid decided to invest then?”

“He thought it’d be great to have a restaurant to tie in with the magazine. Debuting recipes instead of simply writing about them, holding special events and tastings, and really becoming a part of the city rather than just retelling the stories. And Josh wants to be a part of this, too,” Jensen adds. “The firm’s got him set up pretty well here.”

“And he’ll always support his little brother,” Jared tacks on with a laugh. “This is amazing, Jen. Seriously. Your own restaurant—you’ve worked so damn hard to get back here, and I can’t wait to help out in any way you need me to.”

Jensen grins. “That’s good, because there’s gonna be a hell of a lot of paperwork hitting your desk as soon as you graduate.”

“My—” Jared stutters through his surprise. “You want to hire me?”

“There’s no one else I’d even consider,” Jensen tells him, heart filled to bursting on this cool Lowcountry night. “Plus, I’m planning on keeping you close for stress relief.”

“Stress relief?”

“Sexual favors.”

“For the right salary,” Jared says, “we can definitely work something out.”

From his pocket, Jensen pulls out a set of keys. They jangle in his fingers, and it’s the best sound Jensen’s heard in a long time—proof that Jensen managed to achieve his dream. He’s investing the majority of his savings into the restaurant (including his _Chopped_ winnings and the profit he’d made from selling his condo), but he knows the payoff will be even greater.

“Feel like taking a look inside?”

“Inside _our_ new restaurant?” Jared grabs Jensen’s hand, tugging him towards the door. “I’m about to steal those keys from you if you don’t hurry the hell up!”

Jensen stops at the door and imagines the way this stretch of sidewalk might look a few months from now. Potted urns with lush vines and edible flowers (not actually for eating, but they’re great visuals); the arbors and trellises wound with rich colors and shade-giving leaves on the patio; windows that beckon passers-by with an atmosphere that’s not to be missed; their menu proudly displayed beside the door.

“Wait.” Jared stops Jensen before he can turn the key. “Does this mean I get to pick out a name?”

“For the restaurant?” Jensen teases. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been keeping a list for almost two years, waiting until you had your own place,” Jared says. “How about Jay’s Porch?”

“Are you the Jay?” Jensen asks. “Because I think _I_ should be the Jay.”

“Eh, I’m not big on that one, actually. How does Thicket sound?”

“Too much like a steakhouse at an outdoor mall.”

“Cedar?”

Jensen laughs. “Do you have a thing for trees?”

“Whatever,” Jared says, not looking bothered in the slightest. “I’ll come up with something better.”

Jensen rolls his eyes but it’s for show; Jared’s enthusiasm is the fuel that will keep him running when the planning gets tough. He’s been through worse, but with a true friend like Reid backing him up, Josh standing beside him, and Jared as his partner, Jensen will rise to the occasion, adding his signature to the list of Charleston’s masters of cuisine.

“Oh my god,” Jared groans, tightening his grip on Jensen’s hand. “Open the door before I do some serious damage to our restaurant!”

They take their first breath of entrepreneurship together before Jared’s mouth is running with ideas. Jensen tries not to vibrate out of his skin with the way Jared’s excitement is affecting him.

Jensen’s planning to wait until they’re home before revealing the final surprise, because he’s already chosen the name of his new restaurant—seven letters drying on the paperwork back in Jensen’s office. 

_Tristan_.

 

FIN.


End file.
